A Set Of Influences
by iwriteinblueink
Summary: Renowned psychiatrist Dr. Hannibal Lecter is tasked with providing a psychological profile for Clarice Starling. Once one of the brightest rising stars in the FBI Academy, she's now kept safely behind bars after viciously murdering four people. As Dr. Lecter sinks deeper into the depths of her troubled mind he realizes that for all of his knowledge and intent, he can't predict her.
1. Chapter 1

**Note:**

 **I began this story with a simple question: how does Clarice Starling manage her rage?**

 **For a long time, I struggled with finding the answer. I returned to what Thomas Harris had written. The precise moment I realized Clarice was struggling to understand too was during one rather small occurrence in the novel Silence of the Lambs. It begins with her investigating Raspail's storage unit, following Hannibal Lecter's suggestion of a Valentine's Day gift. She certainly finds the Valentines, as well as a ghastly head in a jar. Then she finds herself unzipping the fly of the hard mannequin beside her to find a "dildo of polished, inlaid wood. Good sized one, too. Starling wondered if she was depraved."**

 **Clarice is harassed by a media crew outside, and asks them, politely at first, not to disturb anything inside. A cameraman persists, which sends her "over the edge." She's quite content to force the rusty, heavy storage door down until it almost crushes him in order to prove her point.**

 **I found all of this terribly amusing. And absurdly accurate to how trains of thought can sometimes crash in our own minds, without logic or precise destination. Probably arriving late, as well, and resulting in-**

 **Anger. Ruthlessness. The need for social-acceptance. Sexual frustration. A steady gun hand-her right, more than her left. For all of Clarice's charm, intelligence, wit, and affable personality, it was obvious that something was not quite right with her. Since Harris kindly provides us with the 'why' eventually, I decided to just...adjust it. And figure out what exactly 'it' was as a result, and what it would make Clarice Starling do. I realized I could only find out the answer to my original question by writing it myself. Keeping all of this in mind, I considered another question, the right one this time:**

 **What if Clarice Starling doesn't manage her rage?**

* * *

In the vaunted halls of Behavioural Science, located on the bottom floor of the Academy building at Quantico, no one mentioned the name Clarice Starling without their eyes darkening in pain like the spaces left behind by burned out stars.

The younger trainees were studious, clean, and as blank as the sheets of paper they huddled over. They murmured in low voices. Words of caution dulled their ambition; she'd had ambition too, hadn't she? She had once been just like them, ravenous, fearless, eager. Had she felt just as bored and lonely? Did her dreams also hang by a thread that could have been cut by the higher-ups at any moment? It was difficult to be sure, so it was best to be careful and work, work, work. Without question.

Such a merciless philosophy could only have been supported by Jack Crawford, the Agent-In-Charge of Behavioural Science. He was a tall, gaunt man with beady brown eyes peering suspiciously behind thick framed glasses. His chair creaked when he leaned back. Moving added more creases to his long-unironed grey, corduroy suit. The harsh light overhead threw parts of his cramped office into shadow. The baby-blue walls were like those in the hallway except they peeled a bit more; the stale air was rather exhausting; and the yellowed portable air conditioner cowering in the corner emitted more cold than was really necessary. Yet Crawford could not stop sweating.

He shoved aside some stacks of unwanted bureau supplies, which were gratified by the mirth of a bagel, and sipped what could be referred to as coffee, which was little more than weakly flavoured, lukewarm water.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter was not impressed.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice." Crawford said. "Starling finally sent Avery, our regular psychiatrist, away in tears yesterday. His resignation landed on my desk earlier this morning."

It was irritating for Dr. Lecter to know that earlier the very same morning, he had been strolling through a fresh produce market in downtown Baltimore. His enjoyment of the aromas was short lived, for he had realized that his leisurely plans for the rest of the Sunday were suddenly cancelled by Crawford's phone call.

"The drive was quite lengthy." Dr. Lecter stated. His voice was clipped and cool, his composure well under control, and the gleam in his eyes could have been from the angle of the light instead of the glee he felt watching Crawford squirm. "I wonder, why this sudden urgency? You mentioned that Special Agent Starling has already been in custody for quite some time."

Crawford winced at her title, as if he had scraped the delicate skin of his long, bony fingers on a rusty nail. "It'll be a year by the end of February. Feels longer. Hell, it seems like the vultures at those papers like The Tattler can't quit hanging around the asylum for an 'exclusive' interview." He turned and rummaged through the heavy filing cabinets behind him. Eventually, he slammed a thick file on the desk. Sheets of paper protruded from the sides.

"I'm sure you can understand how delicate the situation is, Dr. Lecter."

"Certainly."

Crawford leaned forward on his elbows. "We need a psychological profile on Clarice Starling. What she did..." He paused. His skin seemed to crawl. "It can't happen again. We can't risk any more psychos passing through this Academy."

"You're quite right of course." Dr. Lecter replied smoothly. The gleam in his eyes intensified. "We don't want a repeat of what happened to Will Graham, now do we?"

Dr. Lecter pursed his lips when Crawford pretended not to hear and slid the file towards him.

"This is her dossier. She simply refuses to cooperate, so if anything will help you break her, this is it." Crawford exhaled slowly. "I expect regular reporting on your progress. I want the first report faxed to me on Wednesday by oh-eight hundred hours."

"It would have saved me time had you simply mailed the dossier, or even faxed poor Avery's preliminary assessment." Dr. Lecter said dryly. He rose to his feet and adjusted the deep red tie nestled between the lapels of his black suit. "Please don't tell me that I drove five hours just for _this_ Mr. Crawford."

A flush crept up Crawford's collar and behind his ears. He cleared his throat. "Well, not quite. Before you hit the road back to Baltimore, I uh, wanted you to talk to Special Agent Ardelia Mapp. She was Starling's roommate. She's the black girl with braids, you can't miss her. Last I saw her, she was outside the cafeteria."

Dr. Lecter promptly took his leave with Agent Starling's file tucked under his right arm. The elevator carried him back to the well lit surface, filled with bustling secretaries, interns, and Special Agents. Many shot him curious looks, most swerved out of his steady way. He wrinkled his nose when the myriad of smells from the cafeteria reached him. It was a relief that nothing appealed to his appetite. Glancing outside the window, he saw a young woman sitting on a metal bench. Ms. Mapp was as unmistakable as Crawford had described. Her dark hair was long and braided, she wrapped it around her left forefinger repeatedly. She wore a pale yellow jumper to accommodate the cold weather, and it stood out wonderfully against her skin. Dr. Lecter wondered if she was proud or wary to know that it set her apart from her peers.

He waded through the noise and the sweat and the suffocation of the crowd, opened the door to a small patch of gnarled, thin trees surrounded by hedges, and approached her.

"Hello, Special Agent Mapp. I'm Dr. Hannibal Lecter."

"Thank God!"

Ms. Mapp shot to her feet and for a moment seemed to contemplate hugging him. To his relief, she refrained, but the gladness in her voice was evident.

"I've been wanting to talk to you ever since Crawford locked Clarice up. He finally caved had somethin' to do with that other psychiatrist getting the hell out of dodge."

"I can't say I blame him, Ms. Mapp."

She smiled crookedly. "Yeah, Clarice can drive someone crazy if she wants to, trust me."

"With all due respect, many would say that Special Agent Starling has been, if I may use your words, 'driven crazy.'"

"Aint for me to say. It's for you, isn't it? Because you're going to save Clarice?"

Dr. Lecter considered her evenly. She did not appear, at first glance, to be naive. Her stance was guarded and firm, her words ringing with honesty, and thus confidence. He knew he did not lack the proper skill for the task at hand. Perhaps Ms. Mapp knew it too. Or rather, she believed it. Ah yes, she was being hopeful. Her question was born out of the need for assurance.

"You have my word that I will do everything in my power to help Agent Starling."

Ms. Mapp nodded. "You'd better. She was a damn good roommate, and an even better friend. Saved my ass a coupla times."

"Have you been to see her recently?"

"Just once. For her birthday, on the twenty third of December. I-"

Dr. Lecter carefully lowered himself on the bench beside Ms. Mapp when her legs suddenly failed her. His expression gave nothing away as he listened to her trembling voice.

"I know what she did. Everyone does. It probably aint right. But I know the Clarice that stayed up all night helping me study for exams, even when she was dog tired. I know the Clarice that taught me how to really use a gun, girl was a champ with the pistol. I know the Clarice that always offered smiles and help to everyone. I never saw her cry. Wish I did."

Ms. Mapp brushed her nose with her sleeve angrily. "It aint right that I graduated and moved on, and Clarice graduated and got locked up. Crawford's a snake. He promised her a place in Behavioural Science right after she was done. She's got four stone walls and nothin', now. He screwed her over just like Judas n' Jesus."

Dr. Lecter pondered this silently. Then he said: "I have not yet had the chance to read her case file. Would you be so kind as to tell me why you wanted to speak with me so adamantly?"

Ms. Mapp took a deep breath. The ground was easier to look at. "'Cause when I went to see Clarice, I couldn't figure her out anymore. I just can't-I can't believe that the same person could..."

Dr. Lecter felt a pang of annoyance at the prolonged delay of information, but counseled himself to wait until Ms. Mapp gulped more air into her lungs and continued.

"The Director of the Justice Department, Paul Krendler, was a real awful piece of work. He liked to grope his secretary while he was on the phone talkin' sweet to his wife. I saw him do it. Well one day he decided he liked Clarice." Ms. Mapp frowned and shifted uncomfortably. "She didn't care for him. Told him so, too many times, and came back distraught to let me know he was at it again. I'd had it half in my mind to straighten him out myself, not just for Clarice, for all the other girls too, but-"

Ms. Mapp shuddered and her eyes grew distant. "Krendler crossed the line. He kept beating down Clarice for so long, I thought even she gave up. He demanded a date after one of her assignments. I was out that evening so she took him back to our place. This was while all the other stuff with her was going on, y'know, and-" She closed her eyes tightly. Forced the words out. "When I came back, I found Clarice sitting at the dinner table holding a bloody knife, her shirt all splattered with blood, and-and the top of Krendler's head was cut clean off. His brain was leaking onto the table. A piece was left on her plate, too. Fried or something. I don't remember, I try not to, but I just-I can't believe the Clarice I know would do that." she choked out finally.

When she managed to look at Dr. Lecter again, she saw that he sat very stiffly. The strangest half-smile was on his lips, along with something raw and strong in his eyes. She was reminded of the way wolves bear down on a bleeding deer, the way masks can hide private amusement by presenting a somber, familiar face. She felt absurd.

"You've been very kind indeed, Ms. Mapp." he was saying as stood up again. His fingers were brushing the cover of Clarice's case file in a circular motion. "No doubt it is difficult for you to consider Clarice as a killer. But wouldn't you say that her actions warranted her punishment?"

"Uh...I guess."

"And you consider her your friend. Do you think she still considers you her friend?"

Ms. Mapp inhaled sharply and took too long to answer. "I-I don't know."

"Could it be, Ms. Mapp, that you are no longer willing to be Agent Starling's friend because the truth does not agree with you?"

"I don't agree with it."

The long drive back to Baltimore was an excellent opportunity for Dr. Lecter to reflect on the morning he had passed. His Jaguar purred on the road that wound through the flat, pretty, empty fields reaped of their worth. Agent Starling was contained between pages on the leather seat beside him. When he pulled over to stretch his legs, he studied a photograph of her face. Shoulder length, thick titian-coloured hair; a soft, round face; coral red, full lips; and piercing blue eyes that stared at him with an expression of intensity just shy of full bloom. It was strange, yet beautiful. Unexpected, Dr. Lecter thought. His mind worked quickly to find the proper word, and he smiled at the choice: selcouth. Truly, that was a word reserved to connote unfamiliar exquisiteness, to describe the extraordinary.

Upon returning home, his mood was light, although he was physically weary. He hummed jovially while preparing sushi, inhaling deeply of the fresh and spicy scents that filled the kitchen. He perused Starling's file in between delicate sips of hot tea. Her service record was impeccable, except for the incidents that had led to her incarceration, of course. The first occurred while she had been investigating the storage unit of one Benjamin Raspail; a cameraman from the media crew preying outside had been a bit too aggressive in questioning Starling, a bit too insistent on crawling underneath the storage door to investigate for himself where he was clearly not permitted. So she had promptly crushed the man's chest with the storage door, claiming that she hadn't been able to hold it up long enough because she lacked the strength of a man, naturally.

The second and third incidents happened simultaneously on the FBI's shooting range. Starling was a sure shot, and her aim had found two male Agents that were, in her own statement, "obscuring her view." A wound in the neck here, a wound in the stomach there. All lead to bleeding out in the hospital. The investigation had dragged on for quite some time.

Then there was the incident with Paul Krendler.

Dr. Lecter set aside the case file. He remained quite still while his thoughts ordered themselves separately from his emotions. A dark scowl gathered on his face. Starling shared a disconcerting amount of similarities with his previous patient, Will Graham. His service record had been exemplary; indeed, he had been the keenest hound to ever run in Jack Crawford's pack. But he had a lovely wife and young daughter, and his frail temperament hadn't been able to sustain the weight of two loyalties. Such unrelenting stress gnawed at him day after day, the inevitable choice between his family and his duty to the FBI. In the end, he hadn't even been left in his right mind to be able to choose.

A sense of foreboding found and held him until harsh morning light filtered through the heavy curtains. He was still sitting upright, awake, tense, sustained by Starling's intrigue and finally meeting her in a few short hours. By the time he arrived at the Baltimore State Hospital For The Criminally Insane, fine rain pattered on the roof, slithered down the grimy windows, and clung heavily to his thinning, neatly slicked hair and navy blue suit. Dr. Lecter was admitted into Frederick Chilton's office and told to wait, a request he tolerated out of simple courtesy.

He read the plaque on Chilton's desk, which declared him Director; he smirked at the M.D. diploma hanging on the wall, which looked decidedly questionable in its authenticity; and he adjusted and re-adjusted his grip on his briefcase every time his eyes noticed the appalling shade of sickly green used to adorn the lampshades, the curtains, and the patience was nearing its end when Chilton burst into the room with a sleazy swagger and a terrible checkered suit.

"Nobody knows what the hell they're doing here!" He walked past Dr. Lecter and sank into the chair, putting his feet up on the desk. "So, you're Hannibal Lecter."

"M.D., at your service." Dr. Lecter said with an icy smile.

"Great. Crawford informed me that you wanted to see Clarice Sterling."

"I believe it is Starling, Doctor Chilton."

Chilton waved a hand dismissively. "It doesn't make a difference. Half of 'em can't even remember their names anyway. I sure as shit won't do it for them. It's not my job." he mumbled as he stood up.

"What exactly is your job then?"

"To get you to _Star_ ling." he snapped, glaring at Dr. Lecter and opening the door.

The asylum had the same feeling and presence as the thick sorrow and listlessness that belonged to wasteland burials. Unmarked, nameless stretches of hard earth; the monolithic sky pressing low; useless, illogical items and smells; and hopelessness. The end of the world. Buried alive up to your bloodshot eyes with whatever was left of you. Usually, not much. Not anything worth remembering once your screams were suffocated.

A sheen of sweat had settled on Dr. Lecter's skin. He was a fit man, perhaps a bit vain, but mostly meticulous about his health. Wiping his brow had nothing to do with extreme physical exertion and everything to do with the banal cameras and bureaucrats and office cubicles and old air and Chilton's droning voice.

"I keep her separately from all the others." he was saying as they were buzzed through a series of iron security doors. "Crawford thinks it's for her well being."

The cold stone walls echoed with their footsteps. Chilton opened a heavy black door. A metal staircase gleamed in the pale lights overhead. They trudged upwards.

"Crawford's clever, using you." he remarked.

"What do you mean?" Dr. Lecter asked, his nostrils flaring.

"You're a sleek, well groomed, well respected middle-aged man." Chilton huffed a breath. "I suspect that ought to remind Starling of her late father. You know how it is with those compone country gals."

Dr. Lecter had a deliciously satisfying vision of sinking his teeth into Chilton's neck, basking in the warm blood that would flow from the ruptured jugular vein. Such an insult could not be tolerated, but the vision was all too brief.

"Alright, here are the rules: do not approach her cage, do not attempt to pass her anything, or accept whatever she may pass you, and do not tell her anything personal." Chilton said, ticking his fingers off one by one. He offered a simpering smile. "Don't know why you would, anyway. But they make me say that. In case you get tempted, the orderly will haul your ass out, understand?"

"Oh, yes."

Chilton nodded curtly, spun on his heel, and walked away. Dr. Lecter squared his shoulders and tightened his grip on his briefcase before pushing the door open. It thudded shut behind him and the sound reverberated through the large, high ceilinged room. There were no windows. It was deep and wide, yet eerily walked over tentatively to a tall, well built, black man wearing a plain white uniform and sitting innocuously behind a splintering desk.

"Hullo," he said pleasantly, "I'm Barney."

They shook hands with a firm grip. Barney jerked his chin towards the cage. "She's expecting your company. Please stick to the rules, and I won't actually have to do my job. I've set up a chair for you."

"Thank you, Barney."

"I'll be minding my own business now, you go on."

Dr. Lecter nodded solemnly and slowly approached the cage. A single lamp spilled light from between the bars. Its glow shifted across the polished hardwood floor that creaked beneath his heel. He drew nearer and saw the long shadows cast by a rickety nightstand, a curtain protecting the privacy of anyone seated on the toilet behind it, a small heap of books, and a thin cot. Clarice Starling was seated on it with her left leg elegantly crossed at her right knee and her hands folded together. She wore an ill-fitting, faded blue prisoner's jumpsuit. She managed a smile when Dr. Lecter stood by the chair.

"Good mornin'."

"Special Agent Starling, my name is Hannibal Lecter. I've come to speak with you, if you will indulge me."

Her smile turned into a frown and she narrowed her eyes. He found himself disappointed at the sight, an unexpected twinge sharp somewhere in his chest. The soft drawl in her voice lengthened and coated some words with dry dust, whiskey, smoke, and a down-to-earth self assurance.

"Did Crawford tell you to keep calling me that?"

"No. But I hold you to higher standards than he does, _Agent_ Starling." Dr. Lecter insisted.

She bristled. "No 'Agent Starling.' The FBI doesn't want me anymore. So cut the shit, Doctor."

He nodded. "As you wish, Miss Starling."

Starling rolled her eyes, stood up and leaned against the cage. Her hands ceaselessly ran up and down the bars. The smooth motion seemed to keep her calm.

"I suppose you want to get all inside my head, like Avery."

"Not quite." Dr. Lecter raised an eyebrow. "While I believe I'm a rather more qualified psychiatrist than he is, your mind is your own. All I can offer you is my company. Barney told me you get quite...lonely."

At the mention of his name, Starling's face brightened. Her eyes twinkled. "Right. Well please sit down, Doctor."

He complied, setting the briefcase across his thighs and clicking it open. "I will have to make some notes during our conversations, Miss Starling, or Jackie Boy will be terribly upset."

"He never did know how to control that temper of his. Takes time an' patience." Starling giggled.

Dr. Lecter smiled. "I agree. Now please tell me how that temper of yours caused you to crush a man's chest with a storage door."

"It wasn't my temper."

"Then why did you do it?"

She shrugged.

Dr. Lecter scrawled a note and quickly glanced at the file before him. "Your service record is impressive, except for these incidents. Surely you must have an explanation for them."

Stretching out an arm between the bars, she asked, "Will you let me read what they've said about me?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Please?"

Dr. Lecter ran his tongue over his bottom lip. It glistened in the light. "It doesn't matter what they say. It matters what you have to say for yourself."

Her fingers twitched for a moment before she slowly retracted her hand. "He was harassing me. Demanding me to let him into that damn storage unit. I obviously couldn't do that because the FBI was investigating Raspail's disappearance. He wouldn't listen! I tried to warn him."

The scribbling of the pen offered a counterpoint melody to her strained voice. "He just dismissed me. He didn't care. He didn't listen. Now he's dead, and you're listening."

Dr. Lecter stared at Clarice Starling. She was sitting on the cot again, bathed in light. "Miss Starling, do you wish you had done anything differently?"

She twirled a bit of her hair thoughtfully. "I wish I'd slammed the door down even harder. But my arms were too tired."

"So you do have some regrets, then."

"Sometimes I think about how everyone that I ever ended up meeting-Ardelia, Crawford, Mrs. Tracy, my landlady, John Brigham, my pistol instructor-they're all responsible for getting me here just as much as I am. Sometimes I wish life hadn't happened this way, an' I mean it."

In his peripheral vision, Dr. Lecter saw Barney beckoning him. "For that to be true, think of how many people need never have been born." he answered quickly, closing her file.

"Or how many need to die."

Dr. Lecter tilted his head slightly to the right. Here was a mind that was spinning so loudly out of control, he could hear the whining of it in the air, feel the almost palpable disturbances of thoughts. If he could taste her mind, he would surely find traces of a bittersweet residue on his tongue that no amount of wine could wash away. It would be a strangely familiar taste. Yes, Miss Starling's mind was also selcouth. But could he even slow its rotation, much less ease it into stillness? Could he construct a profile that gave the FBI the answers they wanted?

Gathering his briefcase, glancing at Starling with a note of wistfulness, Dr. Lecter was amused by the thought that although he did not lack the proper skill, he did find himself suddenly lacking the motivation.


	2. Chapter 2

Clarice Starling would not let Barney see her cry. She heard his heavy gait echoing in the room, drawing nearer, and rolled over to turn on her left side. She hugged herself hard. She drew her knees up to her chest. She waited.

"You alright?"

The motion of her vigorous nodding ruffled her long hair.

"You sure? If you didn't feel like talking with Doctor Lecter again, you'd tell me, right?"

She nodded, once.

"Good, because he's coming back tomorrow." After a moment spent anticipating some sort of reaction and receiving none, Barney walked away.

Starling switched off the lamp beside her. In the half-dark, she wondered: when you are filled to the brim with emptiness and shame for your unkindness, feeling unloved and as if you have not loved enough, when others dance to their own rhythm but you've completely lost yours, when you're tired and hungry, hungry for something more than you can even explain, yet the taste lingers with you every waking moment, who are you?

She turned onto her back now, hands clasped behind her head. This was her comfort position since she had been a child trailing behind her ma's flowery skirt. It was the only splash of colour in the despicably dreary hotel rooms that she had cleaned, many rooms with lamps just like this one. Sometimes ashes gathered in the corners. Sometimes things crawled across Starling's skin while she focused viciously on the ponderous rotation of the ceiling fan above. The pictures that adorned the walls were cheap, but at least they were of other places. Places where thickets and fields were separated by a murmuring stream, while mountains brooded in the distance. Places where neon lights and polished cars dashed down busy, vibrant streets. Better places. And all of them were just beyond the window pane that her ma scrubbed with her calloused hands, while murmuring under each progressively shorter she'd gaze far beyond the window. Sometimes it was too hard to see.

"It's rainin' now, pigeon. Why don't you close your eyes an' sleep? You can sleep for a long while."

So Starling slept. The slow cascade of rain on glass; freshly brewed coffee; the muffled warmth of early dawn; the crisp smell of peeled oranges; and the musk of oil, followed by the clatter of pistol pieces on the heavy kitchen table. Her pa was never completely whole in her mind, but when she slept, she usually dreamed, and he would slip into her dreams as a comforting presence. He was so vivid that she could almost feel the softness and comfort of his warm plaid shirts when she buried her face against his chest.

Then her ma would gently wake her, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, and Starling would once again become used to the lack of his strong arms sheltering her from harm. She learned a different kind of strength, one that sealed her wounds the way a heated blade is held against open flesh, heedless of the painful screams. The way hands are steady while they build hope from the discarded bones of memory. The way the shine gradually seeps from the eyes as the years go by. Starling's strength was solemn.

Long into tomorrow's late afternoon, she was listless. She slipped her moroseness on and off, brooding. Barney brought her food, which was a humble affair of bread and cheese. She found herself longing for her ma's home cooked meals: cornbread, chicken wings, pies, cider, stew, lamb chops-

Starling gasped. Her brow was sprinkled with sweat and she had to fight to keep her hands from shaking. In order to force herself to think about something else, she began to pace the already well worn part of the floor that was between the cot and the door of the cage. It was difficult to resist the urge to hurl herself at the bars in an attempt to somehow destroy them. When she remembered dully that she had nowhere to go, she halted and slowly sank down to the floor. With her knees drawn up and her chin tucked down, she closed her eyes. Her hair obscured her face, and she focused once more on the sound of approaching footsteps. These were slower, heavier with purpose, and evenly measured. Barney's shoes squeaked when he walked. Starling felt her heart lurch when she raised her head.

Dr. Lecter was peering at her with a thin smile. "Hello, Clarice."

"Hello, Doctor." she croaked. "What time is it?"

He flourished his watch. "It is quarter past one."

"You're late."

"My apologies." He sat down on the chair, readied his pen and paper, and waited.

"Why do people say 'late?'" Starling asked earnestly.

"I beg your pardon?"

She suddenly felt invigorated. "People always say the 'late so and so' when they're talking about someone that's dead. But they aren't late, because they'll never come _back_. So why?"

"I suppose it is because, rather than the dead being late, it is the living that are late." Dr. Lecter replied. "Too late to love, too late to apologize, too late to make amends." He tilted his head slightly to the left and simply observed Starling. She was doing the same, although she was careful to avoid staring directly into his eyes. They flickered with the same kind of power that propelled summer storms.

"I suppose death leads to regret." Starling said cautiously.

"I do not believe in regret." he gently reproached her. "Let us focus firmly on the present, my dear."

"Okay."

Their conversation came in fits. It was awfully nice to listen to the Doctor talk, and it was even nicer to know that he was listening to her. There was nothing but professionalism in his manner, a firm command of the situation, and Starling could appreciate that. It was one of the few things she had enjoyed about being a Special Agent; meticulous preparation and planning led to control and exquisite execution in any circumstance. For a time, she could relinquish it to him. At least until she could strip away his exterior and gaze into his beating heart. She took the tentative first step by asking:

"Are you remorseful?"

The question took Dr. Lecter so much off guard that his head snapped up. He regarded Starling with intense caution. "Why would I be remorseful?"

"Maybe you've done some things, maybe you've done nothin'." Starling shrugged. "You'll tell me, I'm sure."

"Do not presume anything, Miss Starling." Dr. Lecter said coldly. "You must know your own nature before you begin to inquire about someone else's. First principles," he added softly, "we must ask of each individual thing, 'what is its nature?' The ancient Stoic philosophers, like Marcus Aurelius, were quite adamant on this point."

"I never got a chance to study philosophy." Starling grunted. "It aint any use to me now."

"Perhaps not." He frowned. "Would you say you had a deprived childhood?"

"I s'pose I did. Money was short; my pa's work as town marshall didn't pay very much and neither did my ma's job as a chambermaid. You make do in all sorts of clever ways, you know?"

"This may surprise you, Clarice, but I do know. May I call you Clarice?"

"Yeah." she grinned. "I guess I should stick to Doctor for you, then?"

"Correct." He checked his watch again. "I'd like you to tell me some more about your parents."

 _Go on, pigeon._ Whenever the rain came, it splattered so wonderfully against the earth, the brightly coloured cars passing by, the tire swing suspended from the oak tree, the wetness weighing on the fur of cats and dogs scrambling for shelter. Clarice liked the slow pace of those days, shimmering. She sat on the porch and felt apart from the world. She could participate if she wanted to; she stretched her fingers out past the border of the wooden steps, embracing the raindrops as they slipped between skin and thought. They were warm. Gentle. Vibrant. Clinging like something that would finally never let go. But it was the nature of water to flow, for the clouds to be broken by sunlight, and the rain eventually moved on, probably to visit the desert in order to fulfill its promise once in a lifetime.

Clarice had no reason to feel fragile back then. It was practically a certainty that her ma would open the screen door any moment and the smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies would waft out of the house; a few hours later her pa would come 'round the bend and holler at them as soon as the door rattled closed. It was wonderful to live in the season of reassurance instead of the season of regret.

"What about your parents, Doctor?"

Dr. Lecter regarded Clarice keenly. "My father ruled as a count in Lithuania. My mother was descended from both the Viscoti and Sforza families who ruled in Italy for two hundred and fifty years."

"So you're some kind of blue blood?" Clarice's tone dipped equally into disdain and disbelief.

"My blood is as red as yours."

"But what could you possibly know about making do?" she threw the words out, accusing him, challenging him, goading him. "You've always had a silver spoon stuck between your teeth. I've been biting bullets my whole life!" Her eyes seared him.

Dr. Lecter's jaw tightened. He stared right back at Clarice, unblinking and unreadable. She leaned further against her cot, feeling shivers in the back of her mind. The bars of her cage were suddenly a comfort. In the wake of their tremulous silence, the chilling inflection of his next statement struck her heart hard.

"I was orphaned at the age of eleven."

"Oh."

He might have left it at that, for the words instantly had their intended effect; Clarice felt her stomach plummet. Her lips parted, her shoulders tensed, she tightened her spine, and her eyes grew quiet while her mind raced to keep up with the pace of her pulse. Alarmingly, the rest of the words came easily. "My parents were killed in a bombing raid. It was during a bitter winter, as I recall."

"How did you survive?"

Dr. Lecter's hesitant reply was quiet, imbued with a regret that Clarice wouldn't dare openly acknowledge. "As you say: by making do in all sorts of clever ways."

He stood up at the sound of Barney's squeaking footsteps, murmuring to him in a low voice, turning away. But not before she recognized his expression. The look in the Doctor's eyes suggested that he was lost. It was suddenly summer to Clarice; she was on the wrong end of the street, her palms were skinned and her knees were bleeding, the heat stifled her chest, and there was a violent rushing sound in her head. The metal scooter her pa had bought her was near a rock a few feet away on the hard, paved road. She cried, salted rain pouring from her eyes. Birds rested on the telephone wires above her and wailed. Her throat was dry, but still she cried. No one heard her.

The thought that Dr. Lecter had suffered such essential loneliness as a child filled Clarice with unease. She was reluctant to acknowledge the affinity she felt, but it was useless to dismiss it just the same. As he walked away, she sharply turned her attention back to reinforcing the professional boundaries between them; Dr. Lecter was here because Jack Crawford wanted him to be here. Resentment burned Clarice's chest. He had gone from being her mentor to her tormentor, with the Doctor acting as middleman. She resolved to convey a clearer message the next time they spoke, and found herself already looking forward to the occasion.


	3. Chapter 3

When Lecter returned home in the evening, he attributed his voracious appetite to the day's immensely probing conversation. Although he had revealed precisely the proper amount of information, he brooded on the ease with which he had done so. It was troublesome because it felt instinctual. Thoughtless, even. He reflected that it had been quite rude of Clarice to judge him so callously. Yet that was part of the delicious risk. Conventional methods certainly would not work on her, otherwise the decidedly less astute Avery would have accomplished his task.

Clarice was undeniably enticing. She seemed to appreciate the very nature of conversation, the simple courtesy of an information exchange, as well as the subtleties of personality and word flow. Her cage denied him the complete experience of her physical presence, which seemed subdued even beyond the necessary constraints imposed on her current status as prisoner. While he played a subtle jazz record and poured himself some red wine, Lecter contemplated the idea that Clarice was purposefully restraining herself. Was it an effort at atonement or appeasement? Her words sparked with playfulness, doused in her innocuous drawl, and her mind turned alternately between viciousness or tameness. She demanded her pound of flesh, but her pity could be genuine; as distasteful as the feeling was, it led to sympathy. And what sympathy led to, well.. _.that_ was suddenly tantalizing and alarming in equal measure.

At this early juncture, Clarice was still wedded to the FBI. It clung to her like an opaque sceptre obscuring her self-perception and by extension, his perception of her. Crawford's institutional insistence on ascertaining her nature was the greatest frustration. While he languidly sipped his wine on the leather couch in the living room, Lecter supposed that he might enjoy breaking her open, engaging in a merciless onslaught that would bare her mind and broaden her insight, so that he might suck her dry like marrow from bone. He could bleed her, slowly, widening the fractures he saw in the steel armour of restraint she wore. She was reckless. She would pour out. Perhaps, he could make her greedy again. Make her beg for reprieve.

And yet, these methods did not appeal to him.

Lecter grasped a thin thread of thought which slithered from the depths of his meticulous mind. It suggested that brutality was unnecessary when the FBI was, in fact, his greatest resource. He smiled. His stomach rumbled. Obeying his natural cravings, he walked nimbly to the kitchen and opened the fridge. He arranged a plate of prosciutto, old cheddar, and grapes, then retired to his study. The polished wooden desk took up much of the space in the room not devoted to shelves groaning under the weight of books. There were also a few classical Greek sculptures, along with a painting of Florence, specifically the Duomo rising into the golden dawn. A glass ashtray was beside his black typewriter, although no ash fouled the air; this weak and occasional foray into smoking thick cigars and elegant cigarettes only brought him a suave sense of serenity that lasted until the curling smoke was extinguished. True peace of mind was fleeting.

What his mind offered now was restlessness. Lecter reviewed his conversation with Clarice again and in doing so, pursued another thought to its source. The discovery made him nod in agreement. After affirming that the hour was not unreasonably late, he called Jack Crawford and invited him to dinner tomorrow. It was a chance, Lecter reasoned, to present his first report in person and to discuss a rather pressing matter in a serious way otherwise diminished via telephone or email or fax. Crawford found the bait irresistible, even if he found the prospect distasteful. For the meal, Lecter gleefully made preparations.

The following morning, he went to the fresh produce market downtown, ambling amongst the agitated crowd, until he found the market stall selling wild mushrooms. Had he remained in his home country, and had the world not been torn asunder by war, Lecter would have continued to accompany his father for their hikes into the ancient forests, observing each species of mushroom with utmost vigilance. Often, the brightest and prettiest ones were the deadliest, but there was no danger here. Lecter selected the few that he required and continued along to gather herbs and spices. The day's preparation carried him on schedule to the evening. He worked with precision and pride in the kitchen; two dishes were planned, with drinks afterward.

The first was cream of mushroom soup. Its warmth and alluring aroma was only intensified when onion and thyme were added, then the butter and sherry. Lecter moved swiftly around the chef's island, past the glistening knives, adjusting the shimmering heat of the stove and procuring an assortment of pans and pots. The exquisite Blue Danube Waltz guided his consideration, his thoughts for the evening. His anticipations settled on Clarice Starling but he did not allow them to give him pause, for time was of the essence.

The second dish consisted of Benjamin Raspail's sweetbreads. Lecter prepared the untalented and incompetent flautist's thymus and pancreas in a small sauté pan. In death, he finally found his true calling; sweetbreads had a delightful velvety texture. They were tender and delicately flavored. Raspail's had remained frozen and thus well preserved until he had taken them out to thaw before going to bed last night. He placed the _orgorge_ and _noix_ to soak in cold water a few hours earlier in order to ensure the meal's finest quality. Truthfully, he had intended to prepare it for himself Monday, before Crawford's inopportune summons to Quantico. Summons that were nevertheless proving to be intriguing, Lecter thought as he tended to the truffle sauce, or more properly, the crucial sauce Perigeaux. Comprise would not do, not even with Crawford as the guest of honour.

He arrived promptly at seven o'clock. Lecter had just finished setting the table.

"Good evening, Jack."

"Good evening, Doctor Lecter." Crawford greeted him somewhat stiffly.

Lecter took his coat. "Dinner is ready. This way, if you please."

Crawford shuffled behind him and took in the house. It was obviously well kept, two stories joined by a sweeping staircase, thick carpets, floors that creaked charmingly, and a persistent scent of freshness no doubt wafting from the scented candles. The dining room was welcoming, broad and well lit, with a large ebony dining room table, six finely carved matching chairs, and cases containing heavy china and polished silverware. A single large painting of Sandro Botticelli's Primavera dominated the left wall. Crawford drifted to it, glancing at the kitchen door. The sound of Lecter humming drifted along with some classical music melody that seemed vaguely familiar. Crawford quickly scrutinized the painting because it seemed too good to be true; even he knew that it was proudly displayed in the Uffizi Galleria in Florence. But Crawford had to be sure...He scratched its surface with a dirty fingernail.

"Pretentious fuck," he muttered upon closer inspection.

"I'm so sorry that is your estimation of me." came Lecter's metallic voice.

Crawford whirled around and blanched, stammering some excuse as he sat down.

Lecter served the first dish without comment, ever the perfect host. During the meal, however, he did briefly consider killing Crawford. It was a foolish, passing thought, more trouble than it would be worth to perform. He shook himself free of the brief distraction. Graciousness was in order. Placing the second dish on the table was a thrilling act, a sort of climax to the evening that added much welcome flavour to their otherwise dull exchange.

"What is this?" Crawford eyed the food suspiciously.

"If I tell you, I'm afraid you won't even try it." Lecter offered a pleasant smile. "I hope you do not find it too pretentious to enjoy."

"No, no." Crawford seemed so very eager to atone for his previous slip of the tongue. It was almost endearing.

They came to a resolution over brandy and cigars: Crawford was pleased with the report detailing Clarice's upbringing, assured that the insight was substantial. Lecter knew it was merely the starting point and to that effect proposed that she be made useful to the FBI once more. It had required a gargantuan amount of persuasion-assisted by the alcohol, no doubt-but thankfully Crawford eventually saw reason and acquiesced to Lecter's methods. He cleared the dishes and the ashtrays, glancing at the clock with a yawn. Tomorrow, he would enlist Miss Mapp to his cause. Or rather, to Clarice's cause; with some well placed coaxing, he felt confident that Miss Mapp could be persuaded to reconsider their friendship if it meant some kind of justice.

And of course tomorrow, he would see the woman herself again. Lecter was surprised by the audacity of his own plan. After all, he had no reason to believe that Clarice would act predictably, let alone to what extent he could shape events in their favour. He found himself awake in bed and staring at the ceiling, unravelling himself through the halls of his memory palace. It was vast, deeply layered, and filled with objects as exquisite as jewelry and as asinine as a coat rack, all to which were attached potent memories. The structure of the palace was old fashioned, borrowing mostly from the architecture of the Duomo, and partly from brooding German castles, American neon, French gardens, and the hushed interior of the Japanese dōjō. It was entirely clean and rational.

Lecter strayed away from the locked doors and the trail of broken teacup pieces resting on the polished floor. He found an empty room here in his mind, tucked away just off to the right of the main hall. The smell of chamomile tea wafted from it. Humming low in his throat, Hannibal Lecter stepped inside and began arranging that room to suit Clarice Starling.


	4. Chapter 4

In Dr. Lecter's shrewd estimation, there was an unmistakable glint of stubbornness in Clarice's eyes today. She was standing stiffly in the middle of the cage, hands clasped behind her back. Even beneath the banal asylum garb, her musculature screamed tension. As it would be improper to openly stare much longer, he dropped his eyes to the blank notebook pages. As he dated them, he said "Why Clarice, today is February the fourteenth, nineteen ninety one."

"I know, Doctor." she said dryly.

His sharp teeth shone as he grinned. "Are you religious?"

A shadow flickered across her eyes. "Sometimes."

"Ah. Well, I think you will nonetheless appreciate this story. The Roman Catholic church would have us believe that Saint Valentine was a martyr. He was tortured horribly, you see, probably for someone else's sins."

"What kind of sins?"

"The details are disappointingly vague, but from what I can gather he sacrificed himself in order for unmarried lovers to continue sending each other obscene letters and consummating their professed love."

"Actions speak louder than words, I guess." Clarice bit back a smile.

Dr. Lecter's eyes brightened with humour. "Do you fancy yourself a martyr?"

She snorted. "If anyone is a martyr here, it's you, Doctor. It's very kind of you to spend Valentine's Day with me an' all, but haven't you got a wife waiting for you at home?"

He shook his head. He tested her. "No. And you, Clarice? Are there any men waiting outside for you?"

"Naw, just Ardelia." she chuckled. "Anyone that might have had me probably changed their minds after they found out about Paul Krendler."

"You made quite a gruesome example of him. I imagine that was meant to ward off any unwelcome suitors hmm?"

Regrettably, her enchanting demeanour slipped. "You seem to be the only one who's made any progress so far." She did not look at him.

Instead of replying directly, Lecter called to Barney. He lumbered over clutching an object wrapped in glittering red paper and a golden bow. "The Doctor asked me to give you this on his behalf." Barney scratched his head and blushed slightly. "He, uh, he can't exactly give it to ya himself, on account of all them rules, but-"

"Thank you, Barney." Dr. Lecter dismissed him crisply. He looked on in amusement as Clarice fumbled with the wrapping and her own bewilderment to open the gift. Satisfaction soared through him at the sight of her lovely, beaming face.

"This is real swell, Doctor." she stroked the fuzzy white bunny slippers delicately. Sitting on the edge of the cot, she put them on and curled her toes to feel the warmth. "Thank you."

"You are quite welcome, Clarice. Barney told me that you say your feet are often cold, and since director Chilton had no intentions of doing so, I took it upon myself to improve your condition. And now," he added almost as an afterthought, "to business."

"Ask away, Doctor."

His penetrating eyes narrowed. "What did you find in Benjamin Raspail's storage unit, Clarice?"

A beat, then she replied quickly, "A head."

"Raspail's head?"

"Possibly."

"Possibly?"

"It was disfigured. Although I assumed it was severed from his body, we never actually found his body."

"Mmm. Yes, the pressing matter seems to be what happened to it."

Clarice crossed her legs. The slippers peaked underneath the folds of blue clothing. She appeared to be gathering her thoughts, clearing the cacophony from the chorus. Her head lowered. Dr. Lecter was practically holding his breath, urging her silently to speak. When she did, her voice was carefully controlled. "I filed him as a missing person, but…"

"So you fear the worst, just like Jack Crawford."

Her eyes widened at the mention of his name. "What's he got to do with this now?"

Dr. Lecter matched her strong gaze with the iron clad purpose in his own "He wants your help."

"Why?"

"I suppose, given your accomplishments in the Academy, he has need of your skill."

"But the FBI doesn't want me anymore!"

He could hear the anguish in her voice and he nourished it. "Why are you particular about the wants of the FBI?"

"It's all I know."

She was so soft, so compact in her martyrdom. This cage, this room, this asylum, this world-none could compare to the tortures of her own mind. Were they colourful? Were they loud, brazen and insistent on her continued pain? It could be a fuel, Dr. Lecter considered, something to draw upon for motivation. He chose to inflict longing.

"Then you must know more, Clarice."

"Mr. Crawford wants my help? D'you think…" she trailed off, the leaping skin of her neck shining with sweat. "D'you think the FBI will take me back?"

A beat, then he replied slowly, "Perhaps."

Clarice exhaled. And now, finally, he sensed her innocent greed. "Tell me how, Doctor."

"Jackie boy wants you to help find Raspail's killer."

"How the hell do I do that from in here?"

"Let me help you, Clarice."

Silence shrouded them for a few moments. Clarice walked to him and gripped the bars with desperate strength. "You know something, Doctor." It was neither a statement nor a question. It was a plea.

"I do." he demurred. "But for this to work, Clarice, we will have to take turns. Quid pro quo. I tell you things, you tell me things, and we kill both of Jack's birds with our one stone."

This startled a laugh from her. Dr. Lecter tightened his lips to restrain himself from a crooked grin. His choice of words was, as always, deliberate yet the room for Clarice to misinterpret his meaning was uncomfortably large. He offered her quick wit a thousand praises.

"So in return for letting you dig around inside my head, Crawford might….unofficially...have me back with the FBI. I'm still waiting to hear the catch."

"No catch, Clarice. I assure you. Working on this case with you will allow me to continue your assessment, and I understand that Miss Mapp will also be indirectly assisting us."

"Crawford got Ardelia mixed up in this too? Sonuvabitch!"

Dr. Lecter raised an eyebrow at her. He soaked in her fuming anger, tracing the pattern of her steps as she stalked her cage with elegant, leonine moments quite offset by her footware. Naked force of will rolled away from her in waves that seemed to flood between the bars, spreading and rising to her ankles, then chest, and then closed over her head. She was oblivious to the fact that all of her efforts at self restraint were useless; she was no more bound now than the tempest winds. Wild freedom blazed in her eyes.

"Alright." she replied harshly. "I'll do it. But only if I get a piece of your mind too, Doctor. Quid pro quo."

"As you wish, Clarice."

He declined to tell her that she already occupied a piece of his mind, a piece that would be allowed to substantially flourish under the conditions he would set for them. Whether or not she was able to stomach the more unsavoury pieces of him would be a testament to her courage.


	5. Chapter 5

The pages slowly came through the aging fax machine. Faint black ink squeezed over already wrinkled, yellowing paper. As Rinaldo Pazzi read he realized that along with the analysis offered by the FBI, the psychological analysis did not coincide with certain dates and names. He concluded that the parts of the file which were not destroyed outright were noticeably altered.

Afternoon sunlight poured through unobstructed behind him. The new location of the police department was located near the Piazza della Signoria. Along the Via Casalmonferrato was the Baptistery, one of Florence's most coveted places. Built in the fourth century, the octagonal building had stoically endured the ravages of time. The exterior was sheathed in white and green marble which glistened the brightest at noon hour. In the old office, the light had refracted off anything metal, right into Pazzi's brown and cunning eyes. He used to have a good view of the upper polygonal columns supporting the rounded arches of the Baptistery. Once during lunch break, he had ventured inside and craned his neck upwards to gaze upon the gilded art. When he could afford it, he wanted to visit again. His salary was stagnant, and his pay withered away on bribery. Pazzi could not take his wife Allegra to the opera as often as she liked, and for that he was sorry.

Pazzi was rummaging through his late forties. He was tall and lean. His hair was streaked with silver at the temples, although they were badly dyed black. The silver hairs in his goatee were undisguised and made himself conscious. His only view beyond the grimy windows now was of the Palazzo Vecchio with its imposing tower casting a long shadow across the piazza. Although he was not a superstitious man, Pazzi had requested his desk be turned away from the windows and instead towards a pinup of Marilyn Monroe. Shoving aside a pile of discarded chocolate wrappers, documents, and pornographic magazines, he walked over and sat on the edge of Roberto's desk while he smoked the last of his cigarette. Roberto was a fresh faced detective, slobbering after glory. Pazzi detested his mild manners and his neat clothing.

"Have you ever seen a man beg for his life, ragazzo?"

"No, Inspector." Roberto flinched when Pazzi thrust the file before him.

"Look well, for this is the face of such a man." It was a round, slightly portly face, bald, and dull. The man was sallow looking. Pazzi flicked his cigarette away.

"How do you know?" Roberto asked timidly.

"Pay attention." Pazzi licked his thick fingers before turning the pages. He read aloud, grandiose gestures accentuating the plain language. "Benjamin Raspail, flautist in the Baltimore Philharmonic Orchestra. He was in the process of transferring to our opera's orchestra," Pazzi grimaced, "at the Maggio Musicale Fiorentino. You see his face? This is how the FBI found him."

Roberto squirmed as his eyes darted to the photographs, and then he quickly looked away.

"Are you sure that's his body?"

"Yes. Once it started to smell terribly, his landlord finally tipped them them off, the dumb asses. At least they took pictures. Oh, and he was being treated for his manic depression by Doctor Fell." Pazzi continued.

"Did Raspail have any relatives?" Roberto deliberately occupied himself with the computer, preferring the blue glow of the screen to the red stain of the photographs.

"None he was in contact with."

"Any intimate relationships?"

After scanning the pages Pazzi declared, "Yes, Raspail was a faggot," and spat on the ground. "His lover was Louis Friend. Search that name, and this Doctor Fell."

The sharp sound of the keyboard keys and mouse clicks punctured the quiet office. "Nothing in our database, Inspector."

"Of course not." PazzI grunted. "Try Interpol and the FBI."

"Even if this is a joint investigation, I still don't understand why it's exactly our problem." Roberto sneered while his fingers stabbed the keyboard. "Raspail disappeared before he even came here, so what? Let the Americans deal with it." He shook his head at the screen. "Nothing. See? I don't understand."

"That's because I am the Inspector, and you are not." Pazzi patted his shoulder. "It's alright, ragazzo. Perhaps someday you will be as smart as me."

Roberto glared at him. He spoke up shrilly only when Pazzi had reached the door. "Now I remember...you headed the Il Mostro case, right? You jailed an innocent man." Roberto smirked at Pazzi's flushed face. "It's alright, Inspector. You'll always have your desk job."

Beneath the shadow of the Palazzo Vecchio, Pazzi quaked. He stood out because his black coat marked him against the marble statues fixed in acts of rape and murder. Thoughts of his disgrace hung heavy like a noose. While it lasted, he had called on the American FBI's Behavioral Science section for help in profiling the Il Mostro killer and read everything he could find on FBI profiling methods. Pazzi had been diligent, studying the slain couples arranged like beautiful tableaus in obscure lanes, etching the scenes into his memory, treasuring his sense of vision. All in vain, as it had turned out.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after he'd refreshed himself at a fountain, Pazzi set off briskly in the direction of the Palazzo Capponi. Narrow stone streets were joined by laundry lines; the cold weather forced them to be bare yet they resembled veins connecting the tissue of life. The facades of the buildings were vibrant, some blackened by the constant pollution of Vespas sputtering and zigzagging between people, others were splashed with water or stained with spray paint. Grey clouds gathered, signalling more rainfall. In defiance, flower stalls had blossomed on street corners; vendors huddled behind thick scarves and caps pulled low over their heads to stave off the biting breeze. Pazzi reminded himself to bring Allegra a bouquet before he returned home.

His steps carried him briskly down the steep cobbles until he found himself at the Renaissance gate leading from the Belvedere into the steep Costa di San Giorgio, a narrow street that wound crookedly and plunged down to the heart of Old Florence. The terracotta roofs scraped against each other, walls embraced and were tugged by vines, a faint scent of smoke sombered the cold air, and Pazzi suddenly felt awash with pressure. His chest was caving. He halted with his hands on his knees, and took gasping breaths until he identified himself as a prisoner of hope. Raspail's case offered his only redemption; he had to scour for clues, to construct a profile in the same way Michelangelo had created David; as Botticelli had breathed life into Venus; Pazzi wanted his work to resemble closely the intricacies of da Vinci's inventions.

By the time he found refuge in the Capponi Library, claiming he was conducting research which required its vast repository of material dating back to the twelfth century, his eyes stung with exertion and he tucked himself away in a corner. The armchair was comfortably padded with leather. On the wooden table, a single green lamp cast light over the case file. A hush settled Pazzi's unease, draped itself around him like a wool blanket, and pressed its hands against his ears. He sharpened his vision with his glasses and began to underline the pages with red ink.

Raspail had been Doctor Fell's patient since November of last year; the FBI noted that he was declared missing by Special Agent Clarice Starling on March twenty second, but his head was discovered just three days later. She had been investigating his case until being subsequently suspended from it. Pazzi scowled at the memory of Jack Crawford telling him point blank that he would not discuss any more of the FBI's profiling methods at that time. Had Pazzi continued to collaborate, perhaps he would not have made such a grievous error in the Il Mostro case. It was reflective of his thought pattern that he linked Starling to Crawford's abrupt refusal, yet it was typical of his skill that he could not actually prove it.

He slammed the pen down beside the file. To quench his violence, he looked at the gruesome photographs again. The bone, sinew, and flesh of the head had been hacked free from Raspail's body. It suggested frantic work, perhaps inexperience. A hand saw was likely, wielded with the strength required for a beheading. Pazzi bent his head lower, as if intent on submerging himself within the images. He turned to the photographs of the body on the grimy hardwood floor. It had no skin. Flaps of chest sinew were splayed open, the organs curdling inside their skeins, and ribs protruded through muscle. The white fat wove through the meaty red, the dripping, sodden arteries. There were two incisions along the throat and abdomen. Pazzi could almost smell the rich blood and feel its slick heat.

After removing his glasses, he went over to the telephone on the far wall. He brushed aside his misgivings and dialled. Several rings later, Jack Crawford barked a greeting.

"Hello, signore Crawford. This is Inspector Pazzi."

Crawford's reply was slow. "What can I do for you?"

"I got the file. Interesting that you are reopening the case now."

"Yeah well, the sooner it's reopened, the sooner we can close it. Tell me what you think."

"Not much. You know the names in the psychological report have been altered?"

"I considered it."

Pazzi nodded to himself. "Raspail's only contacts were Doctor Fell and Louis Friend. Neither of these men exist, but we know they do. One of them is simple to know," he said with a small grin of self-congratulation, "because there are only so many psychiatrists in Baltimore that could have treated him, yes?"

"Right." Crawford sounded pained. "A list would narrow our search. It will take a while, but it's a start."

"Bene. Now this Friend...is it possible he had an argument with Raspail? The violence of the murder could be a passionate crime."

"I guess." The phone line crackled. "I've got some of our people working on the case as well. Between us, we'll be able to figure this bastard out."

Pazzi's scalp prickled. His heart beat out envy. Redemption was like tar, and his need for it smeared an ugly look across his face. "Who is helping you?"

Crawford cleared his throat. "Listen, Pazzi. The Italian government wants to rule out foul play. Having a prospective member of a prestigious orchestra murdered before opening night creates a lot of paperwork, and a lot of variables."

Pazzi doubted that Crawford had ever been to the opera.

"We need a motive. If the names have been changed, we need to figure out who they're hiding. Was there anything you noticed in particular?"

For a moment, Pazzi could only hear the loud rushing in his head. A bead of sweat slid down his cheek. Closing his eyes, his vision flashed to the incisions in the body, and the fact that it was skinless. Like skinless chicken, Pazzi thought. Reflection without proof was useless. He kept it for himself.

"The only one who had access to the psychological files is this Doctor Fell. But he is not the present danger." Pazzi said dismissively. "I think we should focus on Louis Friend."

"Baltimore's gay community is a start. Raspail must have met him through high connections, perhaps performers."

"Not all of them dress in drag, signore Crawford." 

"I know that. But it stands to reason that Raspail might prefer performers, being a performer himself." 

"And it is not unusual for them to use stage names." Pazzi fumbled for something more. "The body was treated barbarically. A lover's quarrel is a good motive. If Friend has a new one, he could kill again."

"Alright. Keep in touch."

Pazzi left the library blindly. His mind was carving out conclusions and calculating reasons, flinging itself into the future while remaining grounded in the past. Florence was a fitting metaphor for his state: saturated with charm, founded in tradition, flirting with modernization, it was the unpolished jewel of Tuscany. It felt like a wicked smile. Beauty was in a mouthful of gelato, a bite of bread; respite offered by a cafe with its doors wide open; the symphony of wine being poured into a glass reflecting the starry sky above. Here, simplicity was essential. Here, the intricate dusty and paved roads all reached the same conclusion. Pazzi would let the FBI reach its own conclusion. He was determined to restore himself, even if it meant scaling a mountain of skulls.


	6. Chapter 6

When Paul Krendler met his untimely demise, Mason Verger lost a valuable asset in the Justice Department. Money was greasy in Washington and in the right hands it was slippery enough to influence a vote here, secure loyalty there, and solidify the Verger presence in matters regarding food safety regulations. Losses were costly. In the stinking dark, Mason shifted on his hospital bed and counted his breaths along with the machine that kept him alive. Numerous tubes slunk across the floor to feed themselves into his lungs; lights blinked in their oddly patterned way; the chamber was high and large, padded with industrial grey carpeting, linoleum floors, steel, and was separated by curtains. Mason controlled the light, the rhythmic, sighing air, and the servants scattered throughout the sprawling mansion.

"Cordell, we need to talk."

He counted his breaths again, estimating that it would be at least a few dozen more until his physician arrived. Cordell was astonishingly competent and loyal, although he had an ingratiating bedside manner. The pillows always smelled slightly of steam, and faint pine. The sheets were too large. The television mounted overhead was too small. Mason's head jerked in what might have been an angry gesture. He was drooling, but as he had no lips, it could only pool on his collarbone. He also had no proper nose, merely small holes in what had once been his face. It was now a mass of sickly flesh folded and stitched and stretched over bone. His voice was mushy, lacked the strength to pronounce words properly, and struggled to shove past tissue and teeth.

Mason no longer cared to remember his old body. The body that had tumbled into the hay of Muskrat Farm, the body that had molested children at the Christian summer camp his father paid for, or the body that molested children still, like the ones playing with toys in the neighbouring wing. Muskrat Farm was the Verger family's mansion near the Susquehanna River in northern Maryland. The Verger meatpacking dynasty bought it in the 1930s when they moved east from Chicago, to be closer to Washington. Mason had transformed it from its humble beginnings into a utopia for wild pigs. He owned a pig-breeding facility in Sardinia, off the coast of Italy. The pigs there were specifically bred to the point of concentrated bloodlust, thrilled to gorge on human beings, trained to use every single one of their vicious forty four teeth. If Mason could have shed a tear of joy from his swollen, remaining eye, he would have.

The sound of Cordell's rapid footsteps made him turn on the light. While he mopped up the drool, Mason said, "How long before the Senator gets here?"

"Senator Martin should be arriving in about fifteen minutes, sir."

"Good. Ruth can be sensible. It's a pity about her daughter."

Cordell nodded. "She's been missing for a couple of days now. The Senator's national plea might have bought her some more time but I wouldn't hold my breath."

Mason's head jerked. "The freak calls himself Buffalo Bill now. Do you know why, Cordell?"

"I can't say I do, sir."

"Fat girls are his thing. That's all the media will say. Open the window."

A stiff breeze drifted through the room. Cordell hovered at the edge of the bed, his hands clasped together. Mason ignored him. He indulged in fantasizing about the pigs tearing into hot guts, crushing the spinal cord, licking rivers of all the very worst internalities a person could offer, piss and blood soaking the hard earth. The part of Mason that still felt phantom pain recalled what it was like to smell. His brain prickled.

"I want Hannibal Lecter to suffer."

Mason said this to no one in particular. This thought, verbalized and now part of reality's fabric, merely echoed in the room along with the breeze. He knew it already. It had the same kind of thrill as peering over the edge of a tall building. Cordell took it upon himself to reply.

"I hope he does, sir. He certainly deserves to, for what he did to you."

Mason's head thrashed. "I did this to myself. You know that."

"He drugged you." Cordell said angrily. "He came here as your psychiatrist and drugged you and-"

"Quiet." Mason was almost inaudible. He was the sudden drop in the dark after missing the security of a firm stair. The machine worked, puffing. "That's not what he deserves to suffer for."

"What, then?"

Mason sucked a long breath. "Getting away with it."

That was what he appreciated about Senator Martin: she was hell bent on making Buffalo Bill suffer out of the very same motivation. She proved even more agreeable than Mason had originally foreseen, enthusiastically suggesting a harsh imprisonment with clandestine visits to Bill's cell by rapists and daily beatings. Of course she could afford it, and of course she was willing to do the necessary political work to conveniently ensure oversight; Mason could not deny her clout in Washington. It was during her second burst of pacing the room that he decided losing Paul Krendler was a costly mistake that could be turned around with another investment.

"I love these ideas, Ruth. I really do." Mason wheezed. "If we can get him on death row, I could even get the executioner to-" a deep cough broke the proclamation-"mess with the poison mix for the lethal injection. We could have lots of fun times. But Catherine needs to be found first."

"The FBI is useless!"

"I have a feeling I'll know where Bill is before they do." After all, he had acquired Director Chilton for the sole purpose of having that weasel tape the conversations between Lecter and Starling. "And when I do know, I will act."

"How can I really trust you?" Senator Martin avoided looking at him but caught a flicker of movement as Cordell stepped out of the shadows.

"Allow me to answer that, sir."

Mason acknowledged this with a slow inhalation. Cordell turned to the pale Senator. "You pay Mister Verger a handsome sum to ensure that Catherine is a valuable asset, and then you trust that he will uphold his end of the deal. He employs highly trained security personnel to protect his assets. By any means necessary."

"A team of mercenaries are going to save my daughter?"

"With all due respect ma'am, there wouldn't be anything left of your daughter to save without Mister Verger."

Mason coughed harshly. "I've heard the tapes between Lecter and Starling so far. In just a few sessions, they've managed to do more than what the FBI has accomplished in months. It won't be long now until they figure out where Buffalo Bill is. My team _will_ be there."

Cordell waved the Senator out when Mason's head slumped. He adjusted the flow of air, wiped his collarbone clean again, tucked the sheets in and held his tongue until Mason's eye swivelled over and pinned him.

"Close the window, Cordell."

He obeyed and resumed his rigid position. "Sir, if I may…"

"Yes?"

"In order to find Buffalo Bill, they need to know who he is first. I'm not sure that they will make the connection."

Mason made a sound that was a very poor imitation of a snort. "Trust me, they will. Lecter won't be able to resist. Did you know Bill murdered and skinned his own grandparents when he was twelve?" Mason's eye rolled. "Play the tapes, Cordell."

Cordell rolled the trolley with the stereo and the cassette tapes over. He cranked the volume. Their excited voices filled the room. Starling was dissecting Raspail's file, stumbling, recovering, searching. Hearing Lecter's voice again filled Mason with a strange joy. He warped that soft, cultured voice into an ensemble of screams and he tried his version of a smile. Cordell caught the hole that was his mouth widening.

"Happy, sir?"

"Starling must suffer as well."

"I'm making the arrangements at the Farm." Cordell supplied. "Cameras shooting from different angles. Both of them strapped to the crosses, nice and sturdy." His eyes gleamed. "There isn't enough of them combined to feed all the pigs you have, sir."

Unfortunately for Mason's nagging impatience, he could not kill Lecter outright while he was in Baltimore. Too sloppy. Too obvious. Not nearly as fun as it should be. So he kept tabs on Lecter for years, both as an overly inquisitive patient and as a private citizen who was personally victimized. Rifling through Lecter's files while under his care had revealed patient histories, most of whom were unaltered, but a few that were certainly recognizable enough to incriminate him. Mason had intended to blackmail him anyway, but Lecter clearly had different designs in mind. Mason used to contemplate the circumstances of death in extreme detail and construct elaborate plans to dispose of Lecter during one of his annual summer sojourns to Florence, but his trace in Italy seemed to disappear like water on pavement dried out by the sun.

Mason closed his eye. Starling pounded in his heax. If it wasn't for her looks, he doubted she would have been remarkable at all. Inexperienced, aggressive, preposterously righteous; he'd heard it all from Krendler. Which was why his death at her hands had been that much more of a shock. She simply had to atone for Mason's inconvenience. Consorting with Lecter only worsened her punishment. He let out a hiss. Chilton's tapes would provide invaluable evidence toward blackmailing Lecter and Starling; they might even be persuaded to peacefully transfer to Muskrat Farm. Mason doubted the world would miss them.

"They'll die together." he choked out.

Swathed in the dark, the machine continued its rhythmic whirring.


	7. Chapter 7

"Why do you think he removes their skins, Agent Starling?"

Dr. Lecter basked in all of Clarice's minute transformations as she pondered the question. She tucked strands of hair behind her ears, smoothly ran her fingers over the pages arranged neatly on the floor, immersed herself so fully in the feast of information that her eyes glazed over, and finally she sighed. Trusting in her abilities was akin to walking on thin ice, flinching at every groan, attuned to each shift and crack.

"Well Doctor, I think it excites him."

He encouraged her by leaning forward in the chair and cocking his head to the right.

"Most serial killers keep some sort of trophies from their victims." Clarice snached a page. "The way I see it, there's a connection between Raspail an' Buffalo Bill."

"Why?"

"The timing fits. Crawford reopens Raspail's case, puts me back on it, just as Bill's making headlines again. Maybe Bill killed Raspail just for kicks."

"Careful, Clarice. There is a flaw here."

She blinked. Shuffling through the pages, she took a few moments to compose herself. "Right, sorry. It doesn't fit BIll's MO to go after men. So far we know he likes young women, large women."

Dr. Lecter felt a twinge of disappointment. She had accepted his suggestion that Louis Friend was in fact Buffalo Bill, yet she still had not ascertained the nature of the name. She was still seething at the fact that Crawford had left her in the dark about the FBI finding Raspail's body; they'd dumped her from the case and it clouded her judgement. Clarice ravenously attacked the facts and her intense concentration awed Dr. Lecter. If only she could master her emotions, she would be immune to unwanted influences. Thankfully, she was malleable. She had been repulsed by the photographs of Raspail's body, but she'd persevered under Dr. Lecter's mentorship. They were in agreement about Bill's motives and personality within the hour. Her intuition only affirmed that her skill as an FBI Special Agent was formidable. Crawford was right to fear her. Without the cage, she could make the world more interesting. Dr. Lecter hoped correction in her line of thinking would not be required, but Clarice was straying. Just as he was about to speak, she burst out:

"We know this leaves us with Raspail and Bill, or rather Friend, getting into some kind of altercation." She glanced at him, bit her lip. "Crawford did suggest the love angle."

"The day I take romantic advice from Jack Crawford will be a sad day indeed."

"I'm enjoying my slippers." Clarice smirked. "I just had a thought."

"Oh?" Dr. Lecter felt his heart pound excitedly.

"What if Louis Friend is also an alias?"

"Clever girl."

She beamed. "Louis Friend is a substitute for Bill's real name. Tell me his name, Doctor."

"Mmm. I don't think I will, my dear. It's much more _amusing_ this way."

"You're driving me crazy."

"I certainly hope so."

"Some psychiatrist you are."

Clarice regarded him in comfortable silence. She set aside some more pages and leaned her head back. His eyes followed the elegant line of her neck, the most of her skin not covered by prisoner's garb. The way her hair curled at the hollow of her throat, flowing just past her shoulders and contrasting with the dark blue clothing, was promptly added to his memory palace. Dr. Lecter acknowledged the resonance of a chamber in his heart. It made him feel warm all over. Her voice had just as strong an effect.

"You treated Raspail. Did you treat Bill, too?"

"Raspail referred Bill to me. They were lovers." he replied smoothly. "Bill is convinced that he is a transsexual. But he is mistaken. He hates himself, which makes his pathology a thousand times more savage."

"I just don't understand why you wanted to hide that you treated him." Clarice stood up and when she came to the limits of the cage, her gaze darkened. Dr. Lecter pulled back in his chair, recoiling from the ferocity in her eyes, while still being unable to resist it. Did she know she had hunter's eyes?

"I value my privacy. Especially patient-psychiatrist confidentiality. Not even the FBI is allowed to peek. Although my sessions with Buffalo Bill were amusing, the results of his therapy were evidently not."

"Is Doctor Fell another way you amuse yourself? Your own little convenient alias. Don't forget that there are lives at stake."

"I am well aware, Clarice."

"Then why are you wasting the FBI's time? Catherine Martin could be dying!"

At last, the moment of insight Dr. Lecter had been waiting for arrived. It was the delicate spring breeze scattering pollen; the quickening of the soul as the season changed and brought with it hope; the earth bared itself to the sky, which in turn passed no judgement. He was the bright yellow in the first flowers, his roots claiming the fertile soil of Clarice's mind, burrowing in until the rain caused her to blossom. He ascertained clearly that she felt compassion that was so at odds with his own. She cared after strangers in much the same way her mother had cleaned up after their messes: duty and toil entwined. Just as quickly as he indulged in the insight, he put it away.

"I frequent Florence in the summer using the name Fell," he explained, "which allows me to adopt the guise of an art curator and historian. Perhaps it simply amuses me to do so, Clarice, but it also allows me some peace of mind. I have privacy because I carry none of the expectations people place on the name Lecter. Haven't you ever had to pretend with the FBI, Clarice?"

The intent had been to soothe her, yet she bridled at his tone. "I'm just an amusement for you."

"The reason you know more than your colleagues is because it amuses me to see _them_ attempt to unravel the same information and reach stupendously wrong conclusions."

Clarice crossed her arms and pouted. "We're running out of time. Tell me Buffalo Bill's real name, Doctor."

"What can you possibly do with that information?" He carefully stoked the coals of her anger, cautioning himself against letting the flames develop into an inferno of suspicion. "You are not free to act, Clarice. Others must act in your stead. Tell me, how does that make you feel?"

"Helpless." There was the faintest tremble in her voice and he pounced on it.

"Would you feel less helpless if someone you trust acted in your best interest?"

"I s'pose I trust you." she mumbled. "But I don't think you're much good at FBI field work, Doctor. That makes Ardelia my next choice."

"Miss Mapp seems capable enough, though she is hardly your equal."

"I'm asking you to trust me now, Doctor. Okay?"

"Okay."

Dr. Lecter found Ardelia to be like a flower left to wither. She would have likely scoffed at the comparison. In the back of her mind, she clung to the idea that she was misplaced and singular. A humorous collection of hand-me-downs and trinkets, scraps of determination and simmering intelligence. Ardelia wasn't someone who complained about her lot in life. Lately, it had been miserable but she shouldered it resolutely. Yet the amount of space in the duplex was haunting. It's grey and white exterior was identical to every other one in the quiet neighbourhood. All the driveways were punctually shoveled, some stray Christmas lights graced willowy trees, beat up cars parked on the curb, and sagging telephone lines were the entrails of wider city life. It was constantly eerie.

Inside was where Ardelia missed Clarice the most. She couldn't bear the table in the kitchen, or the faded red stains on the white floor so most days Ardelia buried herself in law books and Chinese takeout, staying strictly on her side of the duplex. But Clarice still moved with her. She was in the calming thrum of the washing machine and dryer, sitting cross legged on the stitched up loveseat by the window, putting on the dirty running shoes that were now abandoned beside the door, cracking up at Ardelia's jokes and high-fiving her; it seemed that at any moment, Clarice would walk back into Ardelia's life, like nothing whatsoever had changed.

As if no one had died.

Someone else would die too, if they were just a fraction of a second late. When Dr. Lecter brought her up to speed with Raspail's case and handed her a sheet of paper with the names of the few prominent gay bars in downtown Baltimore that Raspail had bragged about frequenting, she accepted this with a grim nod. She wasn't comfortable with it, no; she was convinced that it was a lethal waste of time. If Clarice were here, it would have at least been fun. They would surely be huddled together in her Mustang, casing the bars, making snide remarks about passers by, and applying every scrap of information they had learned in their lectures together. Ardelia stared glumly at the radio now, wishing she was arguing with Clarice over country music or hip-hop instead of nervously waiting in the car for her determination to return.

It didn't feel quite right to Ardelia that she was driving the Mustang. Clarice had let her borrow it for dates and short assignments, but this was different because she wasn't here to give her blessing. Ardelia needed the constant reminder that Clarice was imprisoned and very probably insane. Despair and bitter anger coloured her mood as she visited the first two bars. She asked for the owner, but was reduced to awkwardly standing in a corner. The men were well dressed, scented with cologne and some kind of spice, pressed together, dancing. The music was actually enjoyable, a mix of flamenco and pop. The bar itself was just one large room. Multicoloured lights were strung from the rafters, metal and wood fused together in the decorations, abstract paintings adorned the walls, and Ardelia nearly burst out laughing at the absurd price of just one drink. Her experience at the other bar was no better; the owner shrugged and waved her off, ushering his boyfriend swiftly out the door, muttering something about a vacation, and leaving Ardelia to push herself through the crowd.

She didn't linger. By the time she reached the final destination neatly written on the page in Dr. Lecter's flowing script, a fine drizzle quickly soaked her jacket and dripped from her hair. Breathlessly, she rushed inside the bar and shrugged the jacket off. It hung limply on her left arm. She registered that there were no patrons. A small stage was set up to the left, speakers mounted on the wall at either side, and an array of lights were scattered around the dance floor. The brick walls, a spiralling metal staircase that led to the second floor filled with leather booths, and posters of the early Baltimore train station gave the place a hard industrial look.

Ardelia drifted towards the bar, where a tall, broad shouldered man arranged glasses and liquor. He was wearing a casual white button up shirt, the collar flared against his tanned skin, and a heavy gold chain nestled against the hairs of his chest. He spoke past the cigarette clenched between his teeth.

"We're not open yet. If you're looking for the lesbian bar, it's a few blocks down the street."

"I was actually wondering if you could help me." said Ardelia. "Are you the owner?"

""Yeah, I'm Jake. Want a drink?" He didn't wait for her answer as he began to prepare a martini.

Clarice wouldn't have approved of drinking on duty. Ardelia curled her fingers around the elegant glass and sipped, then plucked the olive. Salt mixed with the cool taste of the drink made her grin approvingly. "My name's Ardelia. I heard you put on a hell of a show here."

"You heard right." Jake grinned. "At least, I used to."

"What happened?"

"One of our best performers quit."

"That sucks. Just out of curiosity," Ardelia drew out the question, twirling a braid, "did anyone named Louis Friend work here?"

"Wait, Louis? Don't you mean _Louise_?"

"Yeah, that's right." Ardelia answered quickly. "What happened to Louise?"

"Oh honey, she was our best drag queen. You should have seen the costumes! They had a weird texture though, probably because they were homemade."

"Why did he-uh, she?" Ardelia's brow furrowed. "Sorry. Why did Louise quit?"

Jake froze. The cigarette was crushed into a copper ashtray. "Louise's lover Ben was killed. He used to come here all the time, made me reserve a booth for him, just so he could get the best view." He nodded at the stage. "The place was packed on Friday nights. They'd sneak on out the back door after the show. It was kind of cute."

Ardelia shifted uncomfortably. "And how is Louise handling the loss?

"I couldn't tell you. Louise hasn't been around for a while, which is why my shows are abysmal." Jake sighed.

"That's probably for the best. It's...safer that way. Buffalo Bill has a real taste for killing, and he won't stop. Not ever. He's got to be found."

"You seem incredibly well informed about this nasty Buffalo Bill business." 

"Let's keep it real." Ardelia slid a few dollars over the counter along with her FBI badge. "I'm investigating Ben's murder. We know there's a connection between Friend, Raspail, and Bill." She looked Jake square in the eye and hardened her tone. "We also know that Friend is just a stage name. When you registered Louise, you had to have a real name."

"Hold on just a minute-"

Ardelia retrieved the badge. She downed the last of the martini. "You've been cooperative. Just answer one more simple question and I'll be on my way."

Jake swore under his breath, his eyes shifting everywhere around the room.

"What's Friend's real name?"

He glared at her then laughed shakily. "Oh, what the hell...Friend registered as Jame Gumb. You can understand why that name lacks a certain flare."

All of Ardelia's pent up tension uncoiled. "Thanks for your time. Keep the change."

The rain was pouring on the drive back to the asylum. Its grim silhouette was worsened by the rolling clouds that grumbled with thunder and flashed with lightning. Ardelia sprinted for the front door. She navigated the cramped corridors and found Chilton's office. Dr. Lecter was seated in Chilton's chair.

"Hello, Miss Mapp. I trust your afternoon went well."

"Buffalo Bill is Jame Gumb. We've got him."

"Let us take care not to celebrate prematurely. We have yet to discover his whereabouts."

Ardelia walked over to the desk. "Where's Chilton?"

"Indisposed."

"Let me talk to Clarice."

Dr. Lecter shook his head slowly. He held out the phone to her. "I believe you still have work to do."

Ardelia spoke to Crawford through gritted teeth. He needled her with questions and annoying conjectures. His patronizing tone got to her more than anything. Their conversation ended with her gladly hanging up, but the awful anxiousness of waiting for more calls ate away any remaining concentration. Ardelia tried not to dwell on what Dr. Lecter and Clarice were talking about, without her involvement by the way, which she more than deserved, thank you very much. She glared at him surreptitiously as he flipped through a dusty encyclopedia. His patience seemed infinite. She counted the number of paper clips in the pile on Chilton's desk. She dozed off and was sharply awakened by the telephone ringing.

The conversation was shorter this time: Ardelia would head to Gumb's address in Belvedere, Ohio and join a specially selected SWAT team and her fellow Special Agents to apprehend him. Crawford made it sound simple. Dr. Lecter reassured her that he would inform Clarice and departed, somehow leaving the office bereft of air. Ardelia had to swallow events as they came, hard and fast. Her flight was delayed a whole hour and it stretched time to an excruciating degree. Her body rebelled at the change in weather and pressure. The FBI's field office in Cleveland offered the saving grace of John Brigham. Ardelia joked with her former pistol instructor as he handed her the field gear, ignoring the way her sweaty fingers reflexively indulged in a trigger motion. By nightfall in Belvedere, she checked into a motel and wolfed down a cheeseburger with fries.

She wiped her hands on her pants before spreading out the gear on the flimsy bed, which took up most of the space in the room. It was a whimsical pastiche of garish styles and patterns. The entire building reeked of a pungent perfume, as though the staff were covering up an even more heinous smell. Ardelia examined the piece, a SIG SAUER 226. She placed it on the bedside table, amused by the thought that Clarice would have preferred her trusty Smith & Wesson 65. Ardelia's last thought before she fell into a brief sleep was a coarse one. Somehow, she'd always imagined that on her first real assignment, Clarice Starling would be there. It felt right. It felt certain. Perhaps the only certainty in the world is that when we gasp our last breaths, we gasp them alone.


	8. Chapter 8

Ardelia was tense, sweaty, and wide-eyed with concentration. She wore Kevlar body armour over a navy windbreaker and khaki pants. Her braids were piled under a navy baseball cap. The pistol, clutched in her right hand, hovered by her ear. She raised a magazine in her left hand, slammed it home, and cocked. She heard Clarice's teasing voice in her mind.

 _Never cock. Just squeeze._

 _I love it when you talk dirty._

The FBI staked out Gumb's house. One black van and several cars were parked haphazardly along the quiet street, with Agents and SWAT members lurking in the shadows. The sky was cloudy and still dark. The element of surprise electrified Ardelia, keeping her alert. She was on point, with two other Agents rounding out her squad. One was Pearson, a tall, scruffy guy who looked older than he really was. He'd given Ardelia coffee earlier. The other Agent was Edward, who had hawkish features and was dispassionately referred to as Mopey Ed. He chewed tobacco and took every opportunity since leaving the field office to express his misgivings about Ardelia being part of the operation. She glanced at him, saw that he was fumbling with his pistol, and made a mental note not to rely on him under any circumstances.

As circumstances were, she really hoped that Gumb wouldn't put up a fight. Brigham was in charge of the operation; he made it clear that this would be done by the book. They knew Gumb was home because his own rusty van was parked in the driveway and they'd seen the bedroom lights turn on and off. His house was two stories, Victorian style, with a bright yellow exterior by day. It loomed large and morose. It filled Ardelia with dread. She peeked over the roof of the car again, and worked her walkie talkie.

"Still no word from Crawford?"

Brigham's sigh crackled through. "Remember kids, he wants Bill alive. As soon as he gives us the go ahead, we'll go."

"Easy for Brigham to say when he's nice and cozy in that van." Ed muttered. "I'm sick of waiting."

"Quit complaining!" Ardelia snapped. She tightened her grip on the SIG.

Ed spat out his tobacco and snarled. "Don't test me. I've been wanting to blow your nigger brains out all night."

Ardelia stiffened. She slowly turned to face him. Her head began to pound and her stomach roiled. "Say that again."

"Ed, get your ass back here. That's an order." Brigham's tone was dangerous. "Mapp, stay focused."

Ardelia raised her pistol level with Ed's mouth. Every muscle screamed for her to curl a finger around the trigger and just squeeze. Her chest heaved. She fought to keep herself grounded. Her voice carried loudly. "Say that again and I swear to God it'll be the last thing you ever say."

Ed scrambled for the van. Pearson winced at Ardelia. He stretched, the beginnings of an apology forming on his lips. Then his head exploded. Ardelia ducked behind the car, knees bent, pistol poised. She heard the smack of Pearson's body. Glass gunshot reverberating in her head and the cold air. Two more shots followed, one which pierced the car tire with a boom. She took aim, then Brigham's command stopped her.

"Hold your fire!"

She caught a glimpse of a few other Agents lowering their pistols and pressing themselves as close to cover as possible. Lights flickered on in the neighbourhood. Dogs barked incessantly. Doors opened and bleary eyed folks stumbled onto their porches in confusion. Brigham and a few SWAT members swiftly ushered the terrified people away while constantly looking over their shoulders and preemptively grasping for more magazines. Once Ardelia saw that Brigham was making his way back to the van, she let herself slouch against the car door. Pearson's blood soaked her left pant leg. Her heart leapt as another shot cracked. The next was followed by a gurgling scream. Ardelia saw an Agent go down, saw the Agent clutch her throat, pitching forward on the hood of the car.

Ardelia swallowed hard and thumbed her walkie. "Brigham, we're being picked off one by one." As she spoke, she scanned the pitch black upper windows and her pistol followed. It was useless. How was Gumb able to see them? The expectation of more fire was agonizing, yet there was no release when it eventually did come in bursts, again and fired a few rounds in return. She succeeded only in shattering more windows and drilling holes in the wooden shutters. Brigham berated her.

"I said hold your fire. We can't have a fucking shootout in the street!"

Ardelia wanted to get inside the house, wanted to sweep everyone with her. She took aim again, but realized that she was more exposed; the car was sinking lower because of its deflated tire. She decided to move towards the van. Reloading distracted her. She slowed her step, glanced at her pistol, missed the smudge of movement in the downstairs windows. A shot rang out. Ardelia crumpled to the ground with a shout. Her right calf was aflame with pain that shuddered all the way up and through the rest of her leg. Blood. More shots. Someone yelling her name. She craned her neck to see Brigham dashing towards her. The several meters between the car and the van seemed uncrossable. She wondered distantly why he was trying. He swore and moved to grasp her from the front, under her armpits. HIs back was to the house. Ardelia tried to help him by standing. Pain rushed through her. Her eyes stung. Brigham pitched forward when two bullets entered and exited his chest in a spectacular splatter.

Ardelia panted as she heaved Brigham's weight. She slowly dragged herself from under him and scraped along the street, covered with his blood. Sirens. Amplified commands, followed by confused shouts. Gumb's house was harshly illuminated by red and blue light. Ardelia's vision swam. She grasped the van's door handle and hauled herself up in time to see a squad of four weaving through the confused Agents. They were encased in black heavy body armour and night vision optics concealed their faces. The first two hefted sturdy shotguns, and the other two medics brought up the rear. Ardelia looked on in bewilderment as they charged into Gumb's house. At first glance, she thought they were SWAT; it was hard to tell in between the flirtatious of light and shadow, but their armour looked matte and unmarked.

Ardelia flinched when she heard the final gunshots. Some time later, the squad emerged with Jame Gumb's corpse. His night vision goggles were askew on his slack face. His chest was a shredded mess of bloody plaid. The medics supported the pale body of Catherine Martin. They dragged it between them, and as they walked by, Ardelia saw that her back had been cut open, and flaps of skin were missing. She turned her head and doubled over, throwing up on the street. One of the medics treated Ardelia's leg, then ushered her into the FBI van.

Ed was at the steering wheel. He seemed paralyzed and was slouched as low as humanly possible. When he caught sight of Ardelia gingerly easing herself onto the seat, his face darkened. Hers was still smeared with blood. She stretched out her leg and gasped. He started the engine. They pulled away from the area, which was being cordoned off. The van shuddered and bounced over every pothole; Ardelia could have sworn Ed was driving like this on purpose. She stifled a pained snarl. He glanced at her warily.

"What happened?"

"If you hadn't spent all this time cowering in the van, you'd know."

They turned a corner sharply. Ardelia braced herself against the dashboard. She shut her eyes, hoping to lessen the pounding in her head, but flashes of Brigham's body and the splash of hot blood forced her to stare out the window. The houses in this neighbourhood were old. Thick oaks in the front yards intertwined their branches against the lightening sky. People slept peacefully, unaware of what had occurred a few blocks away.

"It won't be long 'till the media gets a hold of this." Ardelia remarked.

"Crawford won't like that."

"Yeah. This was a real fuck up. Catherine's dead. We lost too many Agents and-and Brigham."

Ed tightened his grip on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. "How?"

"He was shot in the back. Trying to help me."

"Fuck! I fucking knew you never shoulda been part of this!"

The pain lanced through Ardelia's leg. She felt nauseous again. "Watch what you say. Brigham isn't here to save you now."

"Are you threatening me?"

She turned to look at him. Beyond the haze of pain, deeper than her sorrow, there was a bizarre calm in her eyes. "You be glad that's all I'm doing. Eyes on the road." 

There was a distinction in Ardelia's mind now. It seemed that the slug buried in her calf had begun the divide, splitting the skin like drought split the earth. This divide widened with each passing moment spent dwelling on Brigham's shocked eyes, the rip of bullets, Pearson's overripe head bursting, and Catherine's body. To preserve what little of her composure was left, she tried her best to shut Ed out. He was going on about killers and electric chairs, proclaiming a better world if only it could take care of its own human waste. Killers belonged to the neglected and the useless.

Ardelia belonged to the deserving and the diligent. She told herself this over and over in the hospital. Her immobility was purgatory. A day or two was spent dealing with the shock, breathing recycled air and listening to murmurs in the hospital. She heard snatches of nasty conversation from the handful of Agents that drifted in and out of view, who impaled her with their steely eyes. They said Buffalo Bill made his costumes from the skin of women. They predicted that Senator Martin's wrath would be immense, and FBI should brace itself. And they said Brigham's death was Ardelia's fault. She drew strength from the anger pooling in her gut. It left a sour taste in her mouth. She discovered she could summon the anger at will; the only requirement was recalling Ed's sneers and Crawford's conniving face. This gave her renewed purpose. Most of her recovery was spent resenting the sore fact that she had to wear a cast on her leg and had to use crutches for the most basic function of movement, which only deepened her sense of incompetence.

It wasn't until Ardelia was supposed to meet Clarice for the first time since December that she felt an unstoppable tremor. It captured her cruelly. It made her weak. She was hobbling through the asylum with her heart in her mouth, frightened by the drip of Dr. Lecter's voice down her spine. Ardelia could hear him as clearly now as she had when they spoke over the phone earlier that week. The way he had asked her to visit Clarice made Ardelia squirm. Many things made her squirm, made her want to shed her skin: dirty bus stations, the choke of pollution as cars pulled in and out of transit, the oppression of a grey sky, streams of blood, and eyes-everywhere, everywhere-piercing, obscene, and sinister.


	9. Chapter 9

Clarice opened her eyes and gradually became aware of her rapid breathing. Willing her body to stillness, she focused on the sound of two pairs of footsteps drawing nearer. The first were unmistakably the Doctor's. The second were oddly timed, alternating between a heavy thud and a scraping. The room seemed to yawn a reluctant welcome. She turned on the lamp and found herself looking at a perturbed Ardelia Mapp. Clarice struggled to control the swell of emotions that threatened to appear at the sight of Ardelia's leg in a cast. She had an unhealthy pallor. She grimaced and leaned heavily on her crutches.

"Hey."

Clarice swallowed hard. Ardelia's voice was too hushed. She was interrupted by the bars of the cage. Clarice came right up against them. "How are you?"

"I feel gross. Different."

"You don't look much different." Clarice suggested.

"You look the same to me."

"Thanks." Clarice rolled her eyes.

"Don't give me shit, Clarice." Ardelia glanced sharply over at Barney who was slouching in his chair. Dr. Lecter had discreetly distanced himself.

"Well I don't know what else you expected from me when you came here." Clarice shot back with a weak grin. "How exactly am I supposed to look?"

Ardelia pretended to give this some thought."Remorseful."

Heaviness settled on Clarice's chest. Her accent was prolonged. "It's the uniform, y'know."

"What?"

"It makes me look fat. Not remorseful at all."

"Jesus, I can't-I just don't know you anymore." Ardelia said in exasperation. Her lips wanted to twitch into a smile but the rest of her stubbornly refused.

"You still drink your coffee black?"

"Uh, yeah."

"You still forget to polish your gun an' take your gran's cast iron skillet out of the dishwasher so it don't rust?"

"I forgot again...damn it, Clarice!"

"I reckon I know you pretty well."

A shadow crossed Ardelia's face. It was a flicker in her eyes, a glance away, that opened the chasm between them. Like she knew more than she was letting on. Clarice listened intently. She needed every shred of strength not to relinquish her self control at the description of Brigham's death and Catherine's body. When Ardelia's wound came up, it was an eviscerating baptism. The realization that even people she placed deep faith in were only flesh and blood caused her ideas of valor and ability to fracture further. She felt wretched. By the time Ardelia finished, she could barely stand. Clarice set her jaw tightly.

"I managed not to kill anyone." Ardelia stated.

"Then you're doing an awful job as an FBI Special Agent."

Ardelia squeezed her eyes shut. "That's different."

Clarice switched the lamp off. She sat on the edge of the cot, her silhouette shifting.

"How did you kill four people, Clarice?" Ardelia asked with a note of desperation in her voice. "Why did you kill them? Look where that got you!"

The cot's springs squeaked as Clarice reclined. She felt herself draining. "Yeah. I'm here now. That's all there is to it."

"I can help you."

"You already did. I've got the Doctor now."

The silence dragged on. Clarice rolled over, showing Ardelia her back. "Barney can let you out without Chilton having a heart attack about unscheduled visits."

"You want me to leave?"

"While you still can. I aint goin' nowhere."

Even without watching, Clarice could see precisely with how much determination Ardelia limped away; how her clothes clung to her body; how she smelled faintly of rain and dusty office work. Clarice resigned herself to the growing stab of pain in her ribs. The world narrowed to its most fundamental. Clarice was keenly aware of the coolness of her fingertips, the dampness of her brow, the restraint of her clothing, to the point of suffocation. She tasted iron in her mouth; her tongue pricked and her saliva thickened. She smelled the lacquer of the hardwood floor, the rust of the bars, and her own salt. Dr. Lecter strolled into view.

"Get up, Clarice."

She rose from the cot. He remarked about Ardelia, and Clarice was entranced by the assurance that resonated in his voice. Today he wore a brown sweater with a charcoal grey blazer. It was a far more casual choice of clothing than he had previously worn for his visits, and it made Clarice wary. His eyes, too, had a mischievous glint to them. They appraised her now. She believed that Dr. Lecter's eyes could not look at anything without understanding completely.

"The FBI is fallible. It has failed Ardelia Mapp and Catherine Martin and the hundreds of other women and men that fall prey daily to the despicables of this world." He closed his eyes for a fleeting moment. "And it has failed you."

Each day, inside Clarice a grim knowledge grew: she was marked. Her coworkers had caution in their faces when they had dealt with her, as though she had something contagious. When they knew she had crossed an invisible line and wandered into murder, they buried their heads in the sand. A thorough thinning of their ranks had been long overdue.

"Why did you kill the two trainees at the shooting range, Clarice?"

"They were dangerous."

"According to Miss Mapp, your skill with a firearm is greater than even that of Annie Oakley." Dr. Lecter sighed disapprovingly. "Really, I expected better. They were hardly a danger to you."

"Not to me."

Clarice felt a thrill when his eyes widened in surprise. It was just a glimpse past his veneer of calm, but it revealed a deep reservoir of turmoil. She could quench her thirst; from him and with him and, ultimately, of him.

"Explain, please." Dr. Lecter began pacing around the cage. His movements were more precise, as if the tendons and bones and muscles suddenly snapped to attention. He exuded strength as he prowled. His eyes never left Clarice, and as they spoke, she followed him with her own eyes.

"If they couldn't handle a gun in practice, against me, how could they do it for real, when it mattered most?"

Clarice eventually had to turn her head to keep him in full view. He drifted closer to the cage in a wordless invitation. She moved away from the cot, falling into step.

"And you wanted to teach them a lesson, didn't you?"

"Yes."

Dr. Lecter trailed his fingers lightly across the bars, poking between the spaces, teasing with his voice and his furtive glances and his dry, mocking tone. Clarice bumped into the curtain obscuring the toilet, feeling a flash of annoyance. By the time she twisted around Dr. Lecter had reversed his direction.

"Did you feel elated when you pulled the trigger, Clarice? I think the details are still very lucid in your mind. The crack of the gun, the hard intrusion of the bullets, the haze of smoke and the shrill screams. Tell me how your blood pulsed, how every exhalation at the sight of their writhing bodies was a blissful release."

He kept Clarice in motion. She noticed all the places her shuddering body brushed against the confines of the cage: the corner of her cot, the lamp, the heap of books balanced precariously on top of each other. She bruised herself on the corners of her limitations. She tried to stretch past them, tried to match Dr. Lecter's footsteps, but she could not. Envy shot through her as he moved freely, his balance and timing as precise as a dancer's.

"You must have been satisfied with the outcome." he mused.

"I was."

"Why?"

She nudged the cot again. Pure frustration made her stumble on her own two feet when he abruptly stopped behind the metal folding chair. He rested his hands on the back and waited.

"'Cos their deaths meant other people could live." Clarice gritted out.

"Other people?"

"People that otherwise woulda died from their mistakes. It takes just one mistake. One missed shot, one wrong turn-"

"People like Ardelia?"

Clarice stilled. "Yeah."

"And like John Brigham?"

"Yes."

"And like Catherine Martin."

Clarice nodded.

"I see. You felt that you were doing the world a service by executing your fellow trainees. They were dangerous to others because they were unfit for duty, and therefore unfit for life." Dr. Lecter added in a murmur, almost privately, "Fascinating. Like Socrates, you understand that death is not a defeat, but a cure."

He blinked and tilted his head. It seemed to Clarice that voicing his conclusions out loud brought him a sense of smug satisfaction. More than that, he was offering her a chance to correct him. She wanted to believe that he sensed the value in her, that he trusted her. When she did not move, he came to her.

Clarice tried to match his unwavering stare. She pressed herself forward, her chest chaffing against the uniform and the bars. He was close enough for her to smell the scent of bay rum, which wafted over in tones that were light but complex with their honest earthiness. Finally, she noticed that he had stopped just out of reach. A dreadful feeling of alarm and excitement began to gather in the back of her mind. Dr. Lecter's lips twitched into a salacious smile. Clarice turned away, nearly giving into the temptation to wholly offer her burning heart.


	10. Chapter 10

West Virginia dwindled under heavy skies. The early years of Clarice's life were doused in its smokey, grainy, subdued blue, like twilight that had not quite leaked away. Back when the coal mines were king, what money flowed into the town was invested into fixing up the decrepit car wash, and opening a small cinema. Clarice adored going with her ma on warm Sunday afternoons, wearing her best flowery dress and shining black shoes. Her eyes soaked in every detail of the films, the way the light and shadow of the projection reel danced on the screen to produce places so far away, yet inhabited by people so close it seemed that she saw the characters every day. Before the town's money was squandered on drugs and booze to dull the pain of the frequent cave ins and eventual closure of the mines, Clarice's household managed to remain upright the same way a tree tried to resist shaking in the midst of a storm.

If Clarice paid a visit to the Starling home today, she would have had to pass the broken windows of shuttered businesses and other homes crumbling from neglect. She loved the holler, loved wearing bruises and muddy clothes as badges of honour; always spry, always mean, she got in trouble for going farther from the house than she was supposed to. She cut her jeans off and made shorts and played bare-footed in the yard. She swam in the neighbour's pool after a barbeque, the meat hauled home by the husbands who shot deer in the woods and the wives who helped cook knew how to survive, how to plant a garden, how to sew, and what it meant to hang clothes on the knew how to use a hammer and a screw driver then how to turn 'round and make a pot of cabbage rolls or a pan of cornbread.

They loved their motherhood and their children and their town. They spat out fiery truth and ignored anyone who sneered at their way of life, who presumed to bring civilization in the form of crinkled Benjamin Franklin's and predictions of ruin if the great wheels of modernization didn't keep a-turnin'. Sometimes Clarice envied those people, like when she read magazines her ma lifted from the hotel rooms. Gucci and Yves Saint Laurent adorned elegant women with striking lipstick and glittering jewelry. Their skin was clean, glowing. They looked as contented as singing tucked those magazines in her closet, between the folds of party dresses she never wore. She felt a pang of hunger that flushed to the tips of her ears. It was a feeling not easily discarded, so she did her best to repair broken beams and floorboards, to chase away the crows pecking in the backyard, to read her books and finish her homework before dinner. There was always something more to be done within the reach of her arm.

The little Starling home had a few leaks in the green roof when it rained but some of her best memories were seeing ma put out pots and bowls to catch those leaks. She could still hear the drip, drop, drip, drop. Once, the water was so insistent that it kept her awake. Her pa suggested a car ride; they'd ended up driving aimlessly through town, past the bank and the corner store and the wash and the drug store. Eventually they sputtered up a mountain path and stopped near a gorge. Her pa let the radio play an old cassette full of blues. He reeked of cigarettes and rain on his thick leather jacket. Clarice recalled feeling safe, the gathering of humidity, the raindrops chasing each other down the windows, the sigh of silence. When they got home, the roof kept on leaking, but she didn't care because it taught her the worth of small things. Her circumstances didn't make her feel low.

Even now, Clarice could smell the pine trees that lined her front yard and see the wooden posts her fence was fastened to. She could see the sunflowers down the lane blowing in the breeze from a time gone by; when her small fingers would pick violets and carry them home to rest in a delicate glass vase. On a cool quiet summer evening the crickets chattered late into the night. The lightning bugs danced atop the highest trees, gracing the Starlings' presence during camp fires and late night talks on the porch. Sometimes they would roast marshmallows. Sometimes her pa would gently pluck the mahogany parlor guitar with its silver resonator cone, and her ma would sing favourites like Jolene or What's Forever For with her somber, soft voice. They were often joined by the distant howl of coyotes. This was the whine of the wilderness.

And perseverance was the wine of the wilderness. It was everywhere: in the water from the well she carried home in buckets, the juice of blackberries, the way the mountains literally had a way of molding the person she would become. Clarice swore she had coal slate under her skin. The place became a part of her. Now a highway had been laid parallel to the town. It was narrow, winding and rough, and diverged from the path of the creek through the bottom of the valley. It was the road along where the railroad tracks used to run. The road lined with collapsed and burned-out buildings.

The other paved roads gave way to dirt before winding steeply up wooded hollows. Clarice preferred to take the ones that inevitably dipped into the valley because she could enjoy the murmur of the creek. Spending an afternoon in pleasant solitude usually brought her peace of mind. Once, she had stayed too long and her ma tore up the town looking for her; it was when Clarice had first allowed guilt to intrude into her life. That afternoon was particularly humid. Her t-shirt was sticky against her back and her shorts had to be peeled from her thighs. She was ten years old at the time, dashing between the pine trees, skidding on the gravel path, her cheeks rosy and hot when she arrived at the creek.

She splashed cold water on her face and licked the drops from her lips. A smooth rock rested on a patch of moss. She sat down and closed her eyes. The concentration of the moment slipped beneath the creek's steady trickle, the caress of movement against the pebbles and earth. Carried from the top of the imposing mountains right down to her feet, the water whispered calmly. Clarice opened her eyes when her foot unwittingly nudged a half submerged broken stick. She picked it up. It was gnarled, wet strips of bark hung off it, and the end was viciously jagged. Careful of the splinters, she picked at the lighter wood to hone it into a rough point. She doubted that there were any fish in the creek, yet she couldn't help but absently prod the water anyway. She felt the stick sink into the mud. Her final plunge was so halfhearted she wasn't sure if she wanted to yank it out again. Maybe the stick would remain in the creek forever, a sign that she had been here.

Clarice stood up, and then she heard a frog croak. She glanced at the rock to see it perched there in a pool of water and slime. Its limbs were folded serenely beneath its stout bright green body, and its wide black eyes stared past her. For a moment, she was amused by the way it looked almost sage-like. The small sac in its throat vibrated with the air it let out. Clarice moved toward it slowly, hefting the stick in her right hand. The frog croaked again. When it was within reach, she hesitated thoughtfully. Then, as it took another breath, Clarice skewered the frog.

The sound of the creek leaping and falling; the rasp of the sharp submerged stones; the frog's faintest squeak as she punctured its sac and pushed the stick up and through the back of its soft head. The sac abruptly bulged again, as if it were a balloon, and then filled with blood. Clarice flinched when it burst. The frog sagged down onto the rock and she thought it was awful. One of its limbs twitched, as if it would get up for one final croak, then it was quite still. Clarice hurled the stick away. She picked up the cold and limp frog. She stared at it for a while before gently lowering it into the creek. The water carried it away. Eventually, evening crept in around her while she remained sitting opposite the stained rock, hugging herself.

"Did it feel good to kill the frog?" Dr. Lecter asked. Today he was wearing a three piece suit, demure black slacks, and a malevolent red pocket square for flourish. Clarice was drawn to his tie because its silk pattern was like a sonnet about a bloody water lily.

"No." she answered from her place on the cot.

"Why not?"

"Cos it didn't do anything to me. It was just there an' I wanted to see what would happen."

"You were curious and then you were guilty."

"Yeah." Clarice muttered. "I shoulda been able to separate right from wrong. But I didn't." She picked at the identification number emblazoned on her uniform. A set of digits that could have been plucked randomly from a lottery and thrown together without a second thought; she figured that they only meant something to Chilton or Crawford but they couldn't possibly mean anything to her. She scowled.

"I s'pose the law is for telling us what's right an' wrong."

Dr. Lecter taunted, "You think that's what the law is for?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what the law is for, Doctor! The law exists 'cos our own morals aren't enough."

"No. Our morals exist because the law is not enough."

"How can you say that?" she stammered.

Dr. Lecter steepled his fingers. Clarice noticed a vein in his forehead became more pronounced. His voice was black velvet. "The law is not meant to protect people like us. It does, however, protect state sanctioned murder. It protects the corrupt and allows for war and poverty. Avarice and euphoria, typhoid and swans-the beauty of life crushed by the ugliness of the law. Only because it limits us."

"Maybe it should." said Clarice firmly.

He inclined his head. "But limitation is not always enough, is it, Clarice? Not when you are guilty. That is when you need the law more than ever, because it promises...what does it promise? Answer, please."

"Punishment." Clarice breathed.

"Which implies that you think you are guilty. Are you?"

"Obviously."

"I don't mean legally. Based on your _own_ values, do you feel guilty about your actions?"

"Yes," she answered tremulously, "of course I do. I killed four people!"

"Then there is your morality, Clarice. There is your power, higher than that of any court or abstract oath."

"I didn't have to kill them. I could have done something good. That's why I joined the FBI. Right?"

Dr. Lecter offered a small smile. "What is good? You chose murder, after all. I appreciate your intentions."

Her voice was barely a whisper. "Yes, I chose murder. That felt-that felt good." The word _good_ was a pained gasp.

"Murder must feel good to God as well. He does it all the time. And are we not made in his image?"

Clarice shook her head, insisting, "It's not just destruction. It can't be."

"That is exactly what it is. Precisely that. Only that. Who you are yesterday is destroyed to give rise to who you are today. Don't be wasteful."

"Who I am…" A bitter chuckle escaped her. "Don't you think there's something wrong with who I am?" her voice was rising above seemingly insurmountable words. "I used to know normal. Nowadays I know I'm not normal, because normal people don't kill. Right? You don't just kill, especially repeatedly. Not without a good reason."

"Tell me, what was your reason for crushing that poor cameraman with the storage door?"

"I wanted to."

"You acted on your desire. Why did you want to kill him?"

"Because it felt good."

"What does good mean?"

"I meant, it felt right."

"As in, just?"

"Um, not exactly." Clarice raked a hand through her hair. "He had no business there, he kept pushin' me around. Killing him felt right to me. So I figured I should do it. Feeling right was what made it feel good because he won't bother anyone else like that ever again. Is that good enough for you, Doctor?"

Dr. Lecter chewed thoughtfully on the end of the pen. "Describe the act of killing."

"I've never felt as alive as I did when I was killing him. Honest to God, Doctor."

"And that moment when you killed the cameraman, Clarice, that precise moment of contact between the heavy door and his chest, when you heard the hard crunch, when he began to gasp and shudder and his eyes rolled into his skull," he licked his lips, "during that moment, did it all feel close or far away?"

Clarice could barely gasp in enough air to speak. "What do you mean?"

"Did you feel like you belonged to the moment?"

"Yes."

"Good. And how did you feel about yourself afterwards?"

"Detached."

Dr. Lecter sat straighter in the chair. The way the light fell over him, dark shadows were cast across his cheeks and melted into his skin. "How do you feel about me?"

Clarice felt her heart lurch. A long, agitated silence ensued. He repeated the question more forcefully. She felt a turning, a fluttering, in her chest.

"I feel very attached to you."

Disappointment twisted in her gut at the Doctor's unchanged expression and anger drew her brows together.

"What will you do now, Clarice?"

"I don't exactly have plans so I s'pose I'll wait."

"For now long?"

"As long as necessary."

Dr. Lecter sounded like the way it felt to walk on glass. "Ah, you'll wait for Jackie Boy to throw you another bone. Just how long do you think he'll keep you waiting? True, you've been helpful with Buffalo Bill. But Jack does not appreciate how much you're a feast for the senses, Clarice. Your ambition shines on your face like ducats tossed into a fountain. All the grace of Persephone is nothing compared to yours. And remarkably, speaking with you makes me feel, if I may use your term, good. I think you are meant for more than languishing in purgatory."

Clarice was aware that a flush had spread to the very tips of her ears. It was a relief that she could keep her voice steady. "Well Doctor, are you suggesting I listen to my good ol' conscience and just do whatever I damn well please?"

"There is nothing else worth doing." 

"Or I could just wait and get lucky."

"Integrity and passion are not qualities of the lucky. They are qualities of the curious, and the brave."

There seemed nothing particularly brave about being shut away. The room terrorized her sleep; blank walls and no windows and always the same number of steps from one end of the floor to the other. If she didn't have to walk to keep her muscles from cramping and eventually succumbing to atrophy, she would have preferred to slump down on the floor. It was easier.

Of course, the Doctor complicated things. He made her more aware of her own body, the way it came into contact with the same items in the cage, day after day. He let his eyes wander over her, and he allowed her to simply take up space. It mattered all the more to Clarice that her space was limited. It churned her resentment. She realized her hands were curled into fists. Her fingernails dug sharply into the flesh of her palm. With deliberate slowness, she exhaled.

"I know you have plenty of time to dwell on the past," Dr. Lecter said, "but please do try turning your thoughts to the future instead."

Such a wonderful thing had not existed until he mentioned it. Existence came from his very words, life and death, with nothing in between except the miserable half life she had duly accepted. Aside from bland meals and passable conversation with Barney, Clarice had been building something. It was a quiet endeavour, almost sly, and she used her memories as blueprints. With just a casual proposition, the Doctor crumbled her. He was the hammer and she was the stone, cracking only under his strength. If she allowed it, he could crush her into dust. It would be liberating.

Clarice emerged all at once from her mourning to the smell of coal smudging the clear air. She could hear the distant clamour of a train. She was particularly fond of the robin's nest in her backyard, with its three blue eggs and its promise of something more. In her mind, they all survived. The face of her future cracked a tired smile. Its dark eyes held her whole.


	11. Chapter 11

The blade sang through the air. With one fluid motion, Lecter replaced the katana in its saya which was secured on the left side of the waist sash. It rustled faintly when he stepped back and straightened, breathing out evenly. He was barefoot. The heated upstairs floors were always soothing during his daily ritualistic practice. The kimono he wore this morning was a serene shade of grey, and a fine pattern adorned the silk.

Lecter paused to inhale the incense which filled the dimly lit room. He designated it as the dojō, although it was far inferior to the majesty of the one his aunt Murasaki had used. He wondered often if she would have been proud of his station in life, if she would have cared at all whether he adhered to the traditions she passed on. Perhaps, he reflected as he grasped the katana's hilt again, she would have at least approved of his skill. He favoured the martial art of Iaidō for its smooth, controlled movements. It was deceptively simple, consisting of rapidly drawing the katana, striking or cutting an opponent, and removing blood from the blade with a graceful flick of the wrist. Each step was precise and carefully planned. Centuries of studying and anticipating every possible attack from an opponent had culminated into _kata_ , sets of movements designed specifically to correspond to those various attacks from all angles. The spirit had to be entirely serene; if the sword was upright, the mind was upright.

The sword completed its dignified arc, but wavered momentarily when Lecter executed another strike. His technique was usually neat and direct. The highly refined _kata_ suited him; he moved in his older body as if borrowing it on the way to a younger one. He slowly brought the sword down to his side and sheathed slipped away and was replaced by the rush of excitement which inevitably accompanied thoughts of Clarice Starling. That she should find him even here was concerning. He replaced the saya on its stand and kneeled before the altar with his head bowed. His lips moved of their own accord, reciting ancient words by heart; his thoughts drifted to pleasing Clarice. He disrobed and dressed quickly. Brby a steaming mug of decadent Turkish coffee. The breakfast dishes were disregarded in the sink and he promptly walked over to the parlour room adjoining the dining room.

Floor to ceiling windows allowed light to touch every angle of the grand piano that commanded immediate attention. Lecter took a four track recorder from the ebony shelf on the far left wall, trailing an assortment of cords and two microphones. It was a crude process to set everything up, and he winced at the quality of the cassette tapes, but it really would have to do. He tentatively pressed his foot to the sustaining pedal, avoiding the cords wrapped around the piano, and warmed up with a few easy pieces. As he played, he delved into his memory palace in search of suitable songs for Clarice.

He wanted something that would evoke the straightforward cadences of rural landscapes. He also wanted something that was charming and elegant without being presumptuously pompous; strolling the ever-descending levels of his palace offered him a wide range of choices. Across the hall, an open oak door revealed a concert filled to the brim with the sounds of the towering brass section. Lecter winced and shut it. Moving onto another room, he slipped past the curtains and leaned against the gilded balcony. Delicate flutes and clarinets sparred over weeping strings. It was too morose. His hands paused on the ivory piano keys and he considered the colour of his feelings. They were bright, cheerful, and as close to carefree as was possible for him. He followed them through the palace, moving swiftly now and almost stumbling to catch up with his rapidly beating heart.

It was fitting that his emotions brought him back to the start, and to Clarice's room. But he hesitated in the hall, for his little sister sat on the floor. She was playing with her golden bracelet, holding it up to catch a glimpse of light. Her brown hair fell into her wide, pensive eyes. Lecter approached slowly; the floor beneath his feet seemed to shudder as if at any moment it would swallow him. His made sure his sister did not smell of smoke and sickness, but of soap and sunshine.

"Mischa," Lecter murmured. "What are you doing here? This is not your place."

In a sliver of a prayer she returned to the garden of his palace. A black tub was surrounded by eggplant patches, the shade of the pine forest, and the warmth of the sun slithered through the clouds. Mischa giggled, blowing bubbles through her bracelet; Hannibal made sure the water was not too hot and not too cold and now he grinned, splashing her lightly. He caught the eye of his mother who gently chided him. Her face was radiant. After the bath, Hannibal of gave Mischa his coat. He held her hand tightly as they walked back to the hunting lodge, while the remains of the crisp winter day faded.

The memory toppled, threatening to collapse into the others buried far below, underneath the dusty stone floor. Fear howled at the edges of his mind. Lecter felt as weak as if he'd paid for the moment of solace with all of his blood. He ushered Mischa down the hall, holding her small, fragile hand She wrenched it away and toddled into the dark, turning to offer him a carefree smile, the same one she'd had in the bubble bath. Her eyes were bleached. Lecter contemplated the lucidity of time within his mind, tried to translate it into the world his body occupied, and found himself holding a teacup. He let it shatter. It did not gather itself together; Mischa did not reappear.

Lecter lingered outside Clarice's room until admiration carried him across the threshold. He proceeded chronologically, savouring every single aspect of her person. Here, she was well within his reach yet he could not touch; her skin was likely smooth and soft, but he did not know that for a fact. She frustratingly had no discernable scent, not even when he leaned in close to loom over. The banality and stench of the asylum had initially interrupted his constructions, so he placed a vase of roses on the table beside a plush armchair. Her room had a loft library, was always warm, and the large window offered the wonderful view of a coursing river spilling in the shadow of the mountains. It was still incomplete. With every encounter, he earned more of her. He could freely admit that he was captivated, and truly, it was an inevitability given her enticing laugh, her willingness to listen, her frankness, and her voracious curiosity. He wanted to coffee and conversation with her.. He wanted to watch her eat, to make her smile, to adore her, to hold her hand. The worthiest place for Clarice Starling was exactly _here_.

Lecter allowed himself a moment to drape her in garments that befit her beauty. Many were dresses with generous cuts that revealed her decollete, and he ravished her with satin and pearls, lush brocade, cashmere and silk. Being a modern woman, she would also prefer fine blouses and suede suits, open lace cardigans and cozy sweaters, all with just the right touch of finesse to coax from her the decadence of an oil painting. Clarice could be quite decadent, were it not for her hobbling guilt. Lecter reluctantly withdrew his thoughts and humbly averted his eyes from Clarice until she disappeared. He did not yet dare imagine her naked. Still, he quivered. The ache he felt came in a convulsive rush. It was feverish, but by no means beyond his control. Lecter reminded himself once more that he had to earn her.

Instead of petty placations, he resolved to tempt Clarice with honesty. He imagined her joy when she heard Jacques Ibert's transcendent composition Escales and Johann Sebastian Bach's soothing Goldberg Variations. Satisfied with his selections, he went out of his mind. Adapting the first piece into a piano suite took him a while. It was a beautiful, partial escape, combining stasis and motion. The melody carried flavours from different ports, the dialogue of the sea, hints of sunshine that the piano's translation thankfully retained. Lecter hoped it would instill in Clarice a longing to discover new places. Bach's Variations as interpreted by the adept Glenn Gould were meditative, elegant, plaintive, and tender. When his fingers pressed the ivory, Clarice's marvelous declaration _I feel very attached to you_ responded in bittersweet tones. The trills of the notes added a charming warmth to the recording. Lecter traipsed through each movement, lingering thoughtfully on the architecture of the piece, improvising segments of the intricate scales with blistering speed, and imbuing pointed pauses with transparent affection. The piano bowed to his depth and vibrancy. There were a myriad of moods that conversed with each other, shifting the feeling of the piece from hopeful to somber and back again. He caressed them and finished out of breath. With tingling fingers, he placed the cassettes in his briefcase.

Then he remembered that he still needed to fetch Crawford's report. His mood darkened as he entered his study. Clarice's profile was on his desk, separate from the rest which were tucked away in an alcove carved into the bookshelf. Lecter slipped his fingers between the patient histories, tearing through them with a kind of lazy alacrity. As he did so, he recalled how Miss Mapp had been distraught by the raid on Buffalo Bill; remarkably, it wasn't because of her wound. The suggestion of outside interference hardened her pursuit of the truth, and it worried Lecter. Someday, the FBI might become the salt of the earth it already believed itself to be, but until that time, trickles of money streamed into corruption, and corruption spilled into a tidal wave that had almost drowned Miss Mapp.

Lecter could not have wished for a better effect on Clarice, of course. She crashed against his shore and was swept away to sea, only to return again and again. Perhaps fate was their moon, enticing the waves to dance and carry them together. Or perhaps, Lecter considered, it was simply human design. He glanced at the names of his former patients and reviewed their deaths. Until he came upon the one who hadn't died, the one who made him feel filthy. His head snapped back in a burst of clarity.

"Mason Verger."

The name drew forth a feral snarl. It was entirely plausible that Mason's grubby little hands reached all the way to the FBI...Which meant that there were too many variables to consider at the moment. If he'd been involved with the Buffalo Bill raid in any respect, it suggested a level of interference that escalated from worrisome to dangerous. It was a feeling not unlike the one that accompanied discovering some fatal disease. Lecter sucked a breath past his clenched teeth. He confirmed once more that all the pages in each of his patient histories was accounted for. Surely he had not been robbed. And these particular files were not readily accessible to the FBI without a warrant. True, all bore the name Fell, yet they were merely a diversion in the case of unfortunate discovery. And, Lecter acknowledged, a rather frail diversion at that. Introducing Raspail's file had been a gamble. The prize was Clarice; the problem were the rules they played by.

By late afternoon, Lecter was strolling through the Maryland Art Place. It was a particular favourite of his because the art gallery was devoted to inspiring the community and encouraging engagement with the fine arts. The nurture and promotion of new ideas and communication between artists and the public was paramount to its philosophy, and he wholeheartedly approved. Creation was humanity's succor, and to see it on display reminded Lecter not to abandon his faith. There was a certain dissonance between the more contemporary wing, filled with groups of people that huddled every few meters and filled the air with their whispering, and the classical art which seemed to take offense at every scuff and thud on the hardwood floor. Lecter squinted at the paintings. The lighting blushed, casting his long shadow sharply before him. Classical art depicted crime and punishment, torment and guilt, repentance, and very rarely, redemption. It was the greatest irony that self mutilation ensured paradise.

Lecter found himself alone in a corridor. He placed a hand on the pale blue wall as if to anchor himself. Most of these paintings were familiar to him, like his clothing was familiar, and his well ordered thoughts, and the paths of his mind that he wandered at night. His very routine smacked of slow suicide. He was as trapped as Clarice. Yet she willingly provided him with all the essential pieces of herself, unravelling the stitches in her soul with such trust and power that he faltered and at times had to turn away from her honesty as if were the too-bright sun. It was entirely possible that Clarice Starling was incapable of lying to him. That was terrifying and wonderful. Lecter sank down on a bench, sick at heart and starving.

On the day he was to share his recordings with her, Jack Crawford decided to detain him in his office. Lecter chewed on his frustration and struggled to paste a courteous smile on his face. Every wasted moment that kept him from her was an affront to their dignity.

"Your latest report doesn't bring us any closer to a complete profile," Crawford grumbled. "I want to know more about Starling."

"Clarice is courteous, and receptive to courtesy. She is active, inquisitive, and attuned to her surroundings. Her education in psychology and criminology, along with her work as an FBI agent, has honed her skills in ways you cannot even imagine."

"Yeah, yeah," Crawford muttered, "that still doesn't explain why she killed."

"She has a propensity for self-condemnation. A great deal of anger for the death of her parents. Resentment for the world, and yet...a strange compulsion to help it. In her mind, murder consolidates the difference between compassion and duty. And when the world is sick, there is enjoyment in bloodletting."

"That's crazy."

"That's Clarice." Lecter read disbelief in Crawford's face. "If you want more favourable results, I suggest you allow her a change of scenery. Shouldn't she be allowed to stretch her legs a little? Exercise is good for the brain." When Crawford's stoney expression did not change, Lecter pressed, "Clarice has earned this. Just a quick jog, once a week, say every Wednesday. Under supervision, of course. You wouldn't want her straying from the beaten path."

Crawford's shoulders slumped. "I'll think about it."

"Thank you, Jack."

Lecter turned to leave. It was just as well that Crawford could not see the shock on his face when he brandished a list and said, "Was Dr. Fell a colleague of yours?"

"No."

"Raspail mentioned Fell numerous times during your sessions."

"That is hardly a surprise, Jack." Lecter replied brusquely. "While I am not at liberty to discuss my confidential conversations with the late Benjamin Raspail, it might give you some perspective to know that he was garden variety manic depressive. Very tedious. Very prone to elaborations. I could not help him. Perhaps this Doctor Fell was his attempt at replacing me."

"Right." Crawford sneered. "I guess that explains why Fell doesn't appear as a registered psychiatrist in Baltimore."

Lecter sighed inwardly. "You're welcome to look at my patient histories, if that will allay your misplaced suspicions. I do hope you'll want to come over again. I'd love to have you for dinner."

"All I want Starling's profile." Crawford snapped. "Get it done."

Lecter put his hands on Crawford's desk and leaned in as far as he dared. "Have you looked at yourself lately, Jack? There are more wrinkles on your forehead, around your eyes, and your bitter mouth. Each passing day brings another white hair to add to the grey. You're shorter of breath. Simple things take longer to do, things like filing papers for your beloved Bureau and making love to your wife."

"My wife has been dead for years."

"That's a pity." Lecter tilted his head. "No wonder you spend your days constantly stressed to the point of breakdown."

Crawford bolted to his feet. "I don't need you to psychoanalyze me!"

"No, Jack. What you need is to decide."

"What?"

"You're boiling your guilt and choking on your incredulity at the fact that your beloved protege has gutted the FBI. For reasons you can't explain. That's why I'm here. But how many more years do you have left in you?" Lecter breathed in Crawford's sweat. The office air was tinged with the faintest flavour of fear. He licked his lips slowly. "Buffalo Bill was hardly your revelation. You think Clarice will be. You really think that the Bureau will be grateful, maybe mention this singular accomplishment-which by the way, doesn't truly belong to you-as more than a footnote some intern will glance at while pushing papers." Lecter clucked his tongue. "If you don't have this, you'll amount to nothing. So what does it say about...you?"

"I think you're full of shit."

"I think your nights are as restless as mine. Clarice intrigues you, doesn't she? The papers are looking for a specific kind of intrigue. Anyway, you'll never really know her. And you still carry on. Jack Crawford, the Stoic."

Crawford slowly lowered himself back onto his chair. His face was taut and red. His eyes were unfocused.

"There is another way." Lecter offered. "You can retire, Jack."

"I know."

"Do you have someone in mind to take over?"

Crawford took his glasses off. "Yeah. I've been thinking about Clint Pearsall. Him and I go way back. But you can't-I mean this isn't-I'm not retiring! If you don't complete Starling's profile soon, I'll rely on Chilton's assessment."

"I don't think so. If you want my profile-"

"Goddammit! This is non negotiable!"

"Oh, but it is." Lecter's eyes gleamed. "I have a condition of my own: you agree to transfer Clarice to an institution far away from Director Chilton. To Port Haven, perhaps, or better still, out of state. I had in mind Memphis, Tennessee, where she will have a view of some trees and maybe even water."

"What if I don't transfer her?"

"Then I'm afraid you'll end your thoroughly average career in complete disgrace and Clarice Starling will remain a mystery."

"You don't get to make the rules!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Jack. This is your one last chance to do something good with your life."

Crawford clenched his jaw. "Get out."

Lecter plucked a piece of of lint from the lapel of Crawford's grey suit. He backed away smoothly, humming a pleasant tune, and paused at the doorway. "Just one more thing! I love your suit."

He took care to wipe the lingering disdain from his face before he presented himself to Clarice. On the way to the asylum, he pondered the source of Crawford's sudden and dogged inquiry. Lecter's link to the alias of Dr. Fell was not known to anyone other than Clarice; she had no cause to betray him. He scowled. It was all the more reason to be wary of Chilton, and to remove Crawford. Lecter sat in the Jaguar, listening to the rain batter the roof, counting until his composure returned. He remained cordial for Clarice; it would not do to have their pleasant afternoon ruined.

"Was it hard for you to learn English, Doctor?"

He looked up from the cassette tape strung between his delicate fingers. "Yes. It was harder still to adjust my accent."

"I know the feeling." Clarice grinned. "People gave me shit about mine all the time. I know Ardelia got rid of hers for the city an' all that, but I couldn't."

"Did you want to?"

"I think I did for a while." Clarice shrugged and crossed her legs.

Lecter thoughtfully wound the tape back into place and put the cassette into the radio Barney had kindly offered. "Classical music transcends spoken word. I recorded two pieces over the weekend. Would you care to listen?"

"Sure."

Winter was the recurring season in Lecter's life, or the one that never left. The bite of frost clung to his thoughts. Ice cut the tone of his voice. His gaze swept over a wide, snow covered field at the edge of a primeval forest, where the only colour besides the pristine white were red drops. He had long ago numbed to the cold. The season brought him quiet, a chance to stare into the distance and be completely still because otherwise the world moved too fast. In that stillness, Lecter always found Clarice.

He studied her face as she responded to the music. She was impulsive and shy and fierce. Her temperamental nature and biting wit fascinated him. He idolized every nuance in her breathing, adored her warm voice and the luster of her brown hair, her bright blue eyes, the soft curves at the corners of her mouth. Lecter stared and stared and was thankful for the cage because it kept him out. Sickened by his own intensity, he looked away. Were it not for the bars he would surely smother her. Towards the end of the Variations, he noticed that Clarice's eyes drifted to his hands, then to his face, and then they closed in what he could only describe as bliss. Relief shot through him.

"Thank you, Doctor."

"What's the matter, Clarice?"

"Sometimes...I'm almost glad I'm in here."

"Why?"

"I reckon it's better than me being out there." she said tonelessly. "Wouldn't a kind of world where murderers are just roamin' free be horrible?"

From the remains of the last few gentle notes came Lecter's reply.

"That would be a horrible world, indeed."


	12. Chapter 12

Frederick Chilton believed all of human existence came down to three things: eating, sleeping, and fucking. He was sorely lacking one of these things and it brought him a great deal of bitterness. Shaking his umbrella free from rain, slinging his shabby coat over his arm, he strode into the staff kitchen. Coffee would set things straight. He smacked the machine to make it brew faster. The brew tasted weak. It was hot enough to burn his tongue. A secretary greeted him and reached for a mug in the cupboard. He leered at her. She left before he could make a remark about her ass. No promotion, then. All it took was his signature. Or not. It always gave him a nice heady feeling.

Chilton's domineering attitude increased when he entered his office. Getting sick had been hell; his wife constantly nagging, giving him the same old soup from a can until he sweat right through the bed sheets, her chipper voice dropping hints about a vacation-it was so pathetic. He plopped down onto his chair, kicked off his shoes, and rested his feet comfortably on the desk. While he drank his coffee, Chilton listened to all the conversations between Lecter and Sterling he'd missed. Getting paid extra to do it was even better. He whistled while he set up the recorder, feeding it fresh audio tape, adjusting the radio receiver, fidgeting with the lines. He gleefully put his headphones on a few minutes before Doctor Lecter was due for a session.

The hissing and crackling announced silence. Waiting for the bugs to pick up sound and record was like popping a champagne bottle. Soon enough, Chilton heard squeaky footsteps and a grating ring. More silence would follow, but now it was like smothering the sound of moans that came from a nice, hard fuck in a confessional box. Just without the weird aftermath. Chilton took a legal pad from the desk drawer and readied his pen. He instantly sat on the edge of the chair at the sound of Doctor Lecter's voice. He exchanged the usual pleasantries with Sterling-you look well, how did you sleep, how was your jog-and then they got to the good stuff.

"Doctor, you look like I've stuck a coin in your mouth and told you to suck on it."

"My apologies, Clarice. I was thinking."

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"Whatever we think about becomes our obsession, and obsessions are never fully and finally satisfied."

"Is that because of our nature or nurture?"

Chilton would have said nature. Lecter said, "Irrelevant."

"How come?" Sterling asked.

Chilton had a few ideas on how to make her come. He thumbed his nose and scowled at Lecter's response.

"Most psychology is useless. Banal. Don't you hate it? I do. It categorizes people on the assumption that they're easy. They're not."

"People have a lot in common."

"You'd hate to be common, Clarice. That would sting."

Sterling was definitely the disorganized type. Her murders were all messy. Especially Krendler's. No anesthetic. No grace. Jesus Christ.

"Your turn, Clarice."

"These jogs are really helping clear my head, Doctor. I don't know how you convinced Crawford, but thank you."

"You're quite welcome."

"Chilton probably doesn't like it."

Under the care of an institution, Sterling had rights. It couldn't be helped. Chilton ground his teeth and furiously sketched a drawing of him pounding her from behind, stick figure style. He scratched some more sketches while she spoke.

"Honestly though, I was just thinking about nurture. Jogging takes me out of this environment. The FBI is a perfect environment, isn't it, Doctor?" Sterling's voice loosened. Her warm twang evoked sun kissed fields and dusty roads. "I remember. There was sign that marked the beginning of the FBI training course in the woods. It read: Hurt, Agony, Pain, Love It...I always figured it was some sort of encouragement. I like encouragement. I got faults and desires. I want to act on them."

"I'm glad, Clarice."

"But I'm scared."

"Why?"

"It'll pass."

"Are you scared of living, Clarice?"

"Well, I'm not scared of dying."

"Do I scare you?"

"No, Doctor. Far from it."

"Then what scares you, Clarice?"

"What I want." she said softly. "I want what I want and it scares me. I'm scared I won't be wanted because of what I want."

Wow, Chilton thought. Sterling was like a bitch in heat.

"I understand." Lecter said. "Even after all you've done, there's still no sign of any more cases from Jackie Boy. Tell me, how does that make you feel?"

"Unwanted."

Lecter spoke so gently that Chilton had to turn up the volume. "Would they have you back, you think? The FBI? Those people you despise almost as much as they despise you. Would they give you a medal, Clarice, do you think? Would you have it professionally framed and hang it on your wall to look at and remind you of your courage and incorruptibility? All you would need for that, Clarice, is a mirror."

There was a long pause.

"So, Doctor. Nature or nurture?"

"I believe the word you are looking for is simplistic. You cannot be reduced to a set of influences, Clarice."

"But this anger, it has to come from somewhere Doctor. It just has to. Deep inside, like a seed, you give it time an' the right environment an' it just-it just grows an' you can't stop it."

"There's more to you than anger. Think, Clarice. What inspires motivation in this thing you seek, hmm? Is it lack, envy, spite, loss, insecurity? Or education, that tepid and endless need to satisfy your curiosity."

"And what exactly am I seeking?"

I think you know the answer, Clarice."

"I want to hear you say it."

"You're seeking some place where you're wanted. What would motivate you to find it?"

Another long pause. The silence hissed and crackled. Finally, Sterling broke it, like she was breaking her back.

"Love, maybe."

For the rest of the conversation, Chilton heard something lurking in Lecter's voice. It was just an undercurrent, slight enough that he might have imagined it. But it was still something. On that point, at least, Chilton and Lecter could agree.


	13. Chapter 13

Mornings at the Baltimore State Hospital For The Criminally Insane were usually slow. Barney liked that. He took his time to fetch the creased white uniform from his locker and to sip a thermos filled with tea. Occasionally, biscuits added a sweet flavour to its familiar taste; what he didn't eat, he saved for the pigeons in the park. They liked to flock by the swing set and perch atop the slide, inevitably startled by the laughing children. One or two always approached Barney's outstretched hand. He blinked back at them in an expression of mutual contentment.

As he was whistling down the hall to the storage room, he wondered if it would rain again. Hopefully not, or else the pigeons would stay away. It was half an hour before noon and the skies were strained with clouds. Barney rounded the corner to find Doctor Lecter leaning against the wall with a roll of large papers tucked underneath his left arm.

"Hullo, Doctor Lecter. You're early today."

"Am I interrupting you?"

"Naw." Barney dangled a Ziploc bag with two biscuits inside. "Would you um, like one?"

Lecter smiled. "No. I wouldn't want to deprive your dog of a snack."

"Not a dog."

"What, then?"

"Well they aren't exactly pets, 'cause they don't belong to me. But pigeons, I feed 'em everyday after work."

"You're very considerate."

"I try to be, Doctor Lecter."

It was more than Chilton was, thought Barney. He fished around for his keys in the deep pockets of his uniform and opened the storage room. It was wide and dusty. Crates, cardboard boxes, splintering shelves, and office supplies filled the space. Riot gear, chipped bed frames, spray paint, and uniforms competed for attention. One of the lights overhead flickered. Barney grabbed the clipboard resting on a stack of binders. He made his rounds, pausing here and there, inspecting the inventory, and from the corner of his eye keeping track of Doctor Lecter. With each sizzle of the light, he seemed to soak up the splotches of darkness, shadowing Barney and running his hands along random items.

"You ever figure some things are just meant to be?" Barney blurted in between checking off paper clips for the secretaries and shackles for the inmates.

"That depends on if you believe in hardwired, innate behaviour."

"I dunno about that. But I do know some things happen no matter what you do to try and change 'em. I seen it with pigeons, actually."

"Pigeons and fate, an interesting combination."

Barney grinned. "I'm serious. Some pigeons seem like they just want to fly, no tricks. The young'uns, hopping around, flapping. You watch them a while and they just fly. You think that's that. Nope. Sooner or later, they end up doing tricks."

"Why?"

"There are shallow rollers, and there are deep rollers. You can't breed two deep rollers... or their young, their offspring, will roll all the way down, hit...and die."

Doctor Lecter gave this some thought. Underneath the broken light he remarked, "Agent Starling is a deep roller. Let us hope one of her parents was not ."

Barney nodded. "Do you have any hobbies, Doctor Lecter?"

"Why, yes I do. A few. Everyone has hobbies. Take Agent Starling, she enjoys jogging." Lecter recalled how her face was so long out of the sun, it was almost leeched except for her glittering eyes and her wet red mouth. "Fresh air becomes her." 

Barney grunted in agreement. She was probably finishing up her jog right about now, if his watch hadn't skipped its accuracy again. There was a row of folding metal chairs on the far wall; he'd propped the one he needed to set up soon against a crate. He made his way towards the chair but then Doctor Lecter said, "I was wondering something." Barney walked over. "May I examine that chair?"

Barney looked at him quizzically. "Uh, sure."

"You stay here. I won't be a moment."

Before crossing over to it, Doctor Lecter took off his polished shoes. Barney knew that Doctor Lecter did a slew of psychiatric evaluations for the Maryland and Virginia courts and some others up and down the East Coast. He'd seen a lot of the criminally insane. Maybe he'd knocked a screw loose somewhere along the way. Barney watched him approach the chair like it was a cornered wild animal, straining to see what the Doctor's hands were doing. He was quick and silent, easing the chair a bit wider. He crouched, the flickering light catching some of his thinning, slicked hair, and peered underneath the seat. When he stood up and turned around, Barney felt his heart leap. He didn't speak until Barney closed the storage room.

"I'm disappointed."

"Sorry." Barney's brow furrowed. "I gotta go back in and get a chair, though. Is that one uncomfortable?"

"Physically, no. How much do you value privacy?"

"A lot."

"And Director Chilton?"

"I'd say it's priority number one."

Doctor Lecter looked angry. His eyes lost all trace of their peculiar humour and his mouth set in a hard line. "I think you're lying."

"I'm not."

"Then why is the chair bugged? In your haste to be _considerate_ did you just forget that little detail?"

Barney backed away. His heart hammered hard. He felt the tea rising along with his bile. "Doctor Lecter, I swear I didn't know."

Doctor Lecter gripped his forearm hard. "Whose idea was it to place a chair for me on my first visit? Was it yours?"

"Chilton told me to do it."

"Were it out of courtesy, I would thank him."

Barney relaxed when Doctor Lecter removed his hand. "I'm really sorry. I didn't think to check for bugs."

"Why would you?" Doctor Lecter sighed. "Chilton concealed them well enough, too. He's not completely incompetent after all."

"Do you want another chair?"

"Hmm. Not today, I think." He gripped the roll of papers tighter.

Barney swallowed hard. He felt cheap. "I dunno what he wants to listen in for, but it ain't right. Shit. I just mind my own business and whatever happens between you and Clarice isn't covered in my job description."

Doctor Lecter nodded curtly. "Yet it is in your job description to assist me in performing my duties, is it not?"

"Um, yeah."

"Then on a future occasion I may require your assistance. Possibly two occasions, if all goes well. Mind you, both would be an inconvenience for Chilton, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Nothing terribly illegal for you," Doctor Lecter said soothingly as Barney was in the midst of shaking his head, "just something to reassure me of your considerate nature. I'll be sure to compensate you. It might even be fun."

Barney's watch was, in fact, accurate. It took him a full minute to agree and negotiate a sum that put his pitiful salary as orderly to shame. It took him twenty five seconds to drag the chair out of the storage room. Six minutes and thirteen seconds later, he unfolded it in front of Clarice Starling's cage. Doctor Lecter would spend fifteen minutes outside the room until Barney gave the go ahead to enter. And while Barney waited outside the women's wing, Clarice let the wonderfully hot water cascade over her. Skin, bones, and muscles relaxed. She felt every step she'd taken jolt through her, felt every heaving lungful of air that was a reminder of how much shaping up she had to do. The asylum grounds were hardly the perfect route, just hard earth broken up by chain link fences, concrete, and restricted by dour armed guards that glared as she jogged past. Their eyes bored into her. She thought that maybe there was a sniper in the tower 'round the bend. It made her feet faster. It made her wide eyed and appreciative of the space she occupied outside.

The shower was short. Clarice left her hair damp and tangled. When she emerged in her white bathrobe and bunny slippers, Barney held out her uniform. She brushed it aside. He insisted until they were outside the cage. She shook her head firmly and hid the beginning curl of a smile behind a cough. Barney opened the cage, his keys jangling against the bars. He shot her an exasperated look. She sat on the cot and crossed her legs sanguinely. The bathrobe's hem tugged up her thighs; the rest of it draped loosely, offering quite an expanse of skin. A drop of water, or maybe apprehension, tingled down her spine at the sound of the door slamming shut behind the Doctor. His firm footsteps slowed as he approached.

Clarice observed him. He halted at the chair. Instead of sitting down, he placed a roll of papers on the seat. He clasped his hands behind his back. His eyes roamed.

"Hi, Doctor."

"Clarice. How was your jog?"

"Good."

"I'm glad."

Clarice swept her hair to one side. The bathrobe's collar nestled against her neck, stark against the exposed hollow of her throat. That precise spot, the softness of it, the warmth, could send a thousand constellations spinning in and out of alignment if only the Doctor's lips were pressed there. Her face felt hot.

"You haven't looked at me since you came in." When his head didn't rise, she laughed quietly and said, "I want you to look at me."

Doctor Lecter's expression was a blend of calm and faint amusement. Sparks danced in his eyes. "You hold yourself with such poise, Clarice."

"You sound surprised."

"Did your mommy give you lessons on proper etiquette? I don't imagine the daughter of a chambermaid had much time to paint her nails and select pearls to dangle from her lovely throat. I look at you and I wonder what gave you a taste for beautiful things."

"I can sew, an' I can fish, an' I can shoot. I've hauled water from the old well an' back to the farm, I've lost sweat in the fields. No matter what, I'll never lose the stench of manure on a hot day or the cool relief of some apple cider after hauling hay. If it can be done, I'll do it. Now you might be thinkin' that's just typical of a country girl, Doctor. But that doesn't mean I don't take an interest in beautiful things. I do."

"I do, too."

Doctor Lecter slid the roll of papers just past the bars. Clarice got up and reached for it. Her breath hitched when she unfurled it and saw the charcoal drawings. The paper's fine-ribbed texture accentuated contours, light and hard lines, the spread of shadow and the detail of light. Smudges flowed into the structures of buildings and other people, folds of fabric stitched from brittle strokes, the edges and spaces softened by darker smears. All of the drawings placed her somewhere else: in a field, on the beach, on a busy street, in a rustic room with a bookshelf and an armoire.

"Where is this?" Clarice asked, pointing to the last drawing.

"My apartment in Florence."

"Your apartment? Don't you mean Doctor Fell's?"

"Don't tease me, Clarice."

"Fine. Ask me something."

"How did your mother die?"

Clarice felt her heart plummet. "I found her facedown on the hotel bathroom's linoleum tiles. Heart attack." Clarice could still smell the mildewed plastic shower curtains and ammonia.

"How did your father die?"

"One night he surprised two burglars coming out the back of a drugstore. They shot him."

"Was he killed outright?"

"No. He was a strong man. He lasted almost a month in the hospital. When my mother died, my father had become the whole world to me and when he left me, I had nothing."

"How did it feel to watch him die?"

Clarice made a sound somewhere between a choked breath and a whimper. "I was just... helpless. I wanted a reason."

"A reason?"

"A reason why those criminals deserved to live while my pa gasped his last breath on a hospital bed!"

Dr. Lecter closed his eyes. When he opened them again, their colour seemed sapped. The intensity of his words made up for it.

"What if those burglars were desperate for medication, Clarice? Or simply money to feed and clothe themselves or their loved ones? Those filthy criminals that shot your daddy were just part of the cycle of self-preservation. Had your father survived by shooting them, their mothers would have wept and society would have breathed a collective sigh of relief. What do you say to that, hmm?"

Clarice set aside the drawings and pressed a hand against her eyes. "I feel like I'm fading. Please Doctor, just give me something true."

"Alright. I feel very attached to you."

She stilled. Her hand dropped from her eyes and came to rest, palm up, on the drawings. The lines there cut into the skin, intricacies written with age and experience; she read their meaning at the same pace petals unfurl to the touch of sunlight.

"Y'know, we could change, you and I. We really could."

"People do not change, Clarice. They scar." He drew out the last bit of the word until it was a low growl.

"Are you angry?"

"Actually, yes."

"How's that?"

"I'm angry at you because you threw away your future for murder." Doctor Lecter smirked. "Is that what your daddy would say, Clarice? Do you imagine him being shamed by your disgrace? Do you see him in his plain pine box crushed by your failure; a sorry, petty end of a promising career? What is worst about this humiliation, Clarice? Is it how your failure will reflect on your mommy and daddy? Is your worst fear that people will now and forever wrongly believe they were indeed just good old trailer camp tornado bait white trash and that perhaps you are, too?"

"I want to rip your tongue out."

"What kind of person would you be then, hmm? What kind of person says such things?"

"I don't know."

"This world will try to convince you that you are not someone until you are told that you are someone. Can you remember who you were before the FBI told you who you should be?" 

The air vanished from her lungs.

"You are a warrior, Clarice. Why are you so offended by what you are? What I think doesn't matter, not really, any more than what your dead parents think. We're all helpless to your choices. And it is not your choices you cannot stand." Doctor Lecter regarded Clarice carefully. "It is the fact that you must live with them." 

"I can stand consequences, Doctor."

"Would you agree that for every action, there is a consequence?"

"Yes."

"And would you agree," Doctor Lecter said, gesturing to the cage, "that this is the consequence for murder?

"Yes."

"I look at you and I'm awed by how willingly you subject yourself to it, Clarice. I look at you and I wonder why. I still don't have the answer." Doctor Lecter tilted his head. "You've already served your sentence. Nothing's for forever. What is the consequence of escape?"

"Escape?"

"Hasn't the thought occurred to you?

"It has." With every rush of air that was warm on her face and cool on her legs at the same time; with each steady leap that kept the ground beneath her real as she jogged and carried her through the bright day, bright and dancing with flares of light.

"Then tell me, what is the consequence of escape?"

"Freedom." Clarice replied.

"Jackie Boy denied you freedom. He wanted you to be useful to the FBI, but not too useful. He wanted you to succeed, but not too much."

"I want to kill Jack Crawford."

Doctor Lecter gave a start. Clarice giggled. "Hypothetically, of course. Imagination is good for the psyche, Doctor."

"Of course. How would you do it?"

"Quickly, 'cos I'm not a sadist."

"Okay. Do you really want to kill Jack Crawford?"

"Yeah. I really, really do."

Clarice had wanted a few things in her life: the oranges in her pa's brown paper bag, a new pair of shoes for her tenth birthday, her ma to please, please get up from the floor, and most of all, to be herself. Looking at the charcoal drawings again, she suddenly felt out of place.

"Suppose I do escape. What then? What do you want from me?"

"I want you to believe in the best of me, just as I believe in the best of you." said Doctor Lecter. "People are changing the world, Clarice, while you're just wasting away. People are dancing to music and drinking into the night with friends. The world casts itself differently every day, but you don't know how. I notice you everywhere I go, but you aren't there. I look at you and I see a brilliant young woman that hasn't outgrown her small town mentality. You deserve more. Why refuse it?"

Clarice hung her head.

"No, Clarice. Do not look down, look ahead. You are responsible for getting yourself here. And you are responsible for getting yourself out."

"If you're fucking with me Doctor, the first thing I'm going to do when I get out of here is kill you."

Doctor Lecter smiled. "Brava."

Clarice blinked. Comprehension dawned on her with a soft blush.

"Life's pleasures are just beyond these asylum walls. You need only be brave enough to recognize them and take them without can have whatever you want. Let your guilt fall from your shoulders."

Clarice took a deep breath. "Show me how, Doctor."

Doctor Lecter's smile broadened. "Trust


	14. Chapter 14

Clarice was building her cathedral of dreams. It had no roof. She could see the sky. Sunlight poured through her, wholesome and burning; her mind elevated. Tableaus from early life adorned the transepts; the stained glass windows reflected her thoughts in a fractured fashion, as if mocking them. The font at the entrance was filled with blood. Clarice hadn't dipped her fingers in yet, though she had peered down at it, bemused by her shimmering reflection. A thick emerald carpet muffled her footsteps as she walked through the nave. It was high and wide. The aisles on either side were empty.

Although it was temporary, a peaceful hush pervaded here. Clarice caught the whiff of melting wax. It filled the air thickly. The gloom that had so often filled her old architecture finally lifted; from the dust of her ruins, new stone rose on the foundation of opaque confidence. It was Doctor Lecter's idea to add Gothic elements, from the cruciform layout, two eastern apses, the simple clerestory windows separated by a cornice, colourful mosaics and murals, to the columns, cornices, and tracery.

There was no Christ here; there was Clarice. There was no Devil here; there was Doctor Lecter.

She noticed him staring at a mural. Drifting closer, it felt familiar but she knew at once that she didn't place it there.

"Doing some redecorating, Doctor?"

"Only if you'll permit me."

"I'll let it slide, just this once."

They gazed at the flowing figures, meticulously painted, frozen in epic struggle. Hands reached down from the heavens, clouds hid feathery angels. Against the divine backdrop, a muscular, bearded man restrained a younger, terrified one. A most profane act was about to take place. Clarice felt it tugging at the threads of her memory.

"What's this mural called?"

"The Sacrifice of Isaac." Doctor Lecter said. "It always appalled me that God demanded such a sacrifice; flesh and blood to affirm eternal loyalty. Pain and suffering to earn paradise. Then again, he did sacrifice his own son on our behalf...after we properly nailed him to the cross and let him bleed to death." He added cheerfully. "God intervened for Isaac, but not for Jesus. Shameful. If there is a crueler Father, I cannot think of one."

Abraham seemed to quiver in agreement, holding his son's throat taut, the largest angel extending a hand to stop the knife. "Do you think God intended to eat Isaac, and that's why he told Abraham to kill him?" Doctor Lecter asked.

"Uh, I'm really not the best person to ask about this stuff, Doctor. But that's not the way I remember angel intervenes in time."

"Not always."

They approached the altar together. Clarice suddenly remembered that Abraham sacrificed a lamb instead of his son. And there it was now, resting on the altar with its gangly legs tucked underneath fluffy white fur. Mournful black eyes watched Clarice thoughtfully. Her own regard was rueful. Doctor Lecter gently stroked the lamb's head. He tilted his own head in Clarice's direction.

"When will you tell me about this, hmm?"

"Soon."

As she made her decision, the cathedral fell away, folding on itself like a paper diorama. Doctor Lecter sharpened in Clarice's field of vision; the cage that separated his face remained a constant annoyance. He was sitting on the metal chair, apparently at ease. Without his briefcase, which he hadn't brought with him for the past few visits, Clarice noted. He had brought her case file, a legal pad, and was twirling a black fountain pen. It took her a moment to catch up.

"You're looking dazed, my dear."

"I'm fine, Doctor."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Tell me what you're thinking, please."

"I'm thinkin' about cannibalism."

"Oh?"

"Psychologically speaking, people who got a real taste for other people are usually controlling, possessive, an' egoistic."

"And some people think they can halt the apocalypse."

"It's more than just survival, Doctor."

"Mmm. Some people consume flesh to show contempt, and still others consume flesh to feel close."

"Close?"

"Certainly. Eating is personal. You put life in your stomach to stay alive. And eating is one of the most human acts because we ritualize it with silverware and decorum as only we can. We raise eating from the ordinary to the extraordinary. To eat the flesh of another human being, however, requires lowering ourselves back down to the profane while we feast on the decadent. It involves a sort of profound intimacy." Doctor Lecter paused. "Did you eat Paul Krendler's brain in order to feel close to him?"

Clarice wrinkled her nose. "No. I scooped up pieces of his brain and fried 'em, just like my ma used to fry lamb chops. But I didn't eat his brain. I was scared to."

A flash of disappointment showed on Doctor Lecter's face and was quickly followed by relief. "Next time Clarice, I encourage you to prepare it with some lemon and capers."

Clarice chuckled. "Very funny, Doctor. Cannibalism is rare though, isn't it?"

"If you are inquiring about individuals rather than the primeval tribes of our ancestors, then Jeffrey Dahmer comes to my mind. But I'm afraid there's no shortage of other serial killers, like John Wayne Gacy and Ted Bundy."

"Killing is rarer for women, comparatively."

"Besides you my dear, I can think of Nannie Doss or Karla Homolka. Along with Gwendolyn Graham and Cathy Wood. As well as the recent case of Aileen Wuornos. Quite a slippery one. She hated men. Do you hate men, Clarice?"

"No, Doctor. I'm not a feminist."

"How fortunate for me, then. Would you like to hear a story?" Doctor Lecter asked dryly.

"Not really."

"Oh, come now. You really need to get more fun out of life."

"What's the story called?"

"The Scorpion and The Frog."

"Does it have to be a frog?"

"Yes."

"Alright, let's hear it." Clarice muttered sullenly.

"Once upon a time, a scorpion asked a frog to carry it across a river. The frog hesitated, afraid of being stung, but the scorpion reasoned that if it did so, they would both drown. Considering this, the frog agreed. But halfway across the river the scorpion did indeed sting the frog, dooming them both. And when the frog asked the scorpion why, the scorpion replied that it was in its nature to do so."

"Oh." Clarice shifted uncomfortably on the cot and frowned. "I don't s'pose the scorpion felt guilty. The frog must've felt betrayed, though."

"Do you think in its last pitiful moments, the frog forgave the scorpion?"

"I'd like to think so."

Doctor Lecter smiled. "Betrayal and forgiveness are best seen as something akin to falling in love."

"Except you can't control who you fall in love with."

Doctor Lecter let silence pass between them. "Quid pro quo, Clarice."

"Go, Doctor."

"After your father's murder you were orphaned. What happened next?"

"I went to live with my mother's cousin and her husband in Montana. They had a ranch."

"Was it a cattle ranch?"

"Sheep and horses. We...we had a horse named Hannah. I wanted her so much. But I knew it wasn't right because I couldn't take care of her. I learned that you should never have something you know you can't care for."

Doctor Lecter nodded. "How long did you live there?"

"Two months."

"Why so briefly?"

"I ran away."

"Why, Clarice?" Doctor Lecter asked in a supplicatory tone.

Clarice considered lying and felt ashamed. Already her most consistent lie was the one about how well she slept. At the Lutheran Orphanage, she had huddled under the covers, shivering, crying quietly and trying to stifle her wretched screams. She woke throughout the night in the asylum with her sheets soaked in sweat. Sometimes her cheeks were wet with tears, and she often gasped for air. The darkness smothered even the few jerky moments of sleep she did get. All Clarice saw was dark swarming behind her eyelids. She dreamed darkness came into her, it came and it was insidious, flowing up her nose, into her ears. She heard its whisper, like a friend, and felt its caress, like an enemy. It quenched her thirst and left her wanting more. The darkness offered her an end, and a beginning.

In the back of her mind, the cathedral bell tolled. She knew that she'd willed it into existence as a milestone, as a saintly call, that enabled her to speak.Clarice Starling had to curl fire around her tongue to tell Doctor Lecter about Montana.


	15. Chapter 15

The boom of Uncle's shotgun reverberated across the fields. Clarice liked the anonymity of the fields. This could be anywhere in the world. What made it Montana were the mountains in the distance, imposing and crowned with snow. Clarice squinted in the sunlight. Uncle's property stretched past the dipping hill, the cluster of trees that shaded herds of sheep grazing lazily, and all the way to the sturdy wooden gates and gravel path. Two horses ambled around in their enclosure opposite the hulking wooden barn with its fading red paint. It filled Clarice with unease. She wrenched her gaze away from it in time to see Uncle's German Shepard sprinting across the field, snarling and barking, a blur of brown and black amidst the fresh green. It sniffed at the carcass of the coyote, licked at the shotgun shells lodged firmly in its chest, then the dog stood proudly with its tongue lolling out.

Clarice watched Uncle pick something up and drag the coyote over to the truck parked by the house. He dumped the carcass in the back, then swore. He stalked over to Clarice and shoved a dead rabbit in her hands. Auntie came out of the house wearing her best blue apron, the one with the stitched flowers, just in time to see the truck rumble down the gravel path. Auntie took the rabbit and ushered Clarice into the house. It was cool indoors. A wooden staircase crawled up to the right. Family portraits were arranged neatly on the wall; some were in grainy colour, while others were yellowed with age. Sometimes, Clarice could hear the pipes in the house stir, as if that were the sound of its wilting bones groaning to life. Down the hall was the living room. Most of it was taken up by the large, round oak dining table and chairs. A television set was pushed against the stone wall, underneath a moosehead. Auntie's organ and sheet music from church were tucked into the left corner, beside an assortment of cacti scrambling for the sunlight filtering through the window.

In the kitchen, Auntie was skinning the rabbit. Clarice peered around the corner, watching her wield the knife quickly. She peeled and sawed and paused and tossed the fur into a black bag. Clarice didn't enter until it was gone, along with its strong, foul smell. Auntie nodded curtly when she came back and turned to face the sink. The sound of rushing water filled the kitchen; a few minutes later, the rabbit was scrubbed clean. Clarice didn't really want to look at it, she wanted to focus on Auntie cooking, but she still stole sly glances at it splayed on the counter anyway.

Auntie moved with a lot of energy, although she always looked tired. Her hair was kept out of her face in a tight bun, and whenever she got the chance, she insisted on shearing Clarice's thick hair shorter with a pair of sheep scissors. Auntie was odd like that; not patient like ma, not strong like ma, but sharp and too blue. It was hard to imagine that they were related.

Steam rose and obscured her face now. Oil bounced over the stove like translucent fleas. She used the knife to cut some juniper, then lifted the lid on a pot. In went the rabbit. There was such a hiss and a pop that Clarice was sure it would hop out. She tried to make eye contact, but Auntie worked around her, shunting Clarice aside with her hip if she needed to reach for a condiment.

"I can do the vegetables," Clarice volunteered

"Then do them," Auntie said, and afforded Clarice one well-placed glare.

By the time Uncle came home, the table was set. The rich aroma of the food filled the living room. Clarice felt her mouth water when they all sat down. The rabbit, lean and stewed, was carefully surrounded on a platter by olives and turnips. Auntie had seasoned it with rosemary and the sharp, fresh smell entered Clarice's nose as she reached for the boiled potatoes resting beside the broccoli. Auntie swatted her hand away.

"Clarice, say Grace."

"Grace."

The rabbit's strong, wiry taste stayed with Clarice until bedtime. She'd abandoned sewing the rips in her jeans after she'd pricked her thumb three times in a row. Auntie liked to crochet for her church group; Clarice enjoyed selecting the different colours for the thread and the meticulous pattern of the needle. She put on her pajamas now and kneeled on the patch of moonlight streaming into the room. She prayed by her bedside. Most of it was just words, scraps she'd heard Auntie and Uncle repeat so many times they came to her by memory rather than belief. She mentioned the rabbit, thanking it for filling her belly, and snuggled into bed.

Falling asleep came easier when she heard Uncle and Auntie trudge up the stairs, then walk past her bedroom. Safety for Clarice was the warmth of her covers, the scent of her freshly laundered pillowcase, and the quiet house. Danger was carried by the chilling wails of coyotes. They always made Clarice curl up tighter, made her want to be even smaller, and to press her hands over her ears. She hated the way she understood their keening; it was the exact same as the acute pain in her ribs, the slow, ponderous ache that she learned to name loneliness. Those long nights dragged Clarice down and made her eyes prickle. She would peer out the window just to have something to see; the stars seemed so fragile, hung by only string. Clarice saw the coyotes' glowing eyes at the edge of Uncle's property, too many of them, burning with malice as they plotted their ambush.

The mornings which belonged to those exhausting nights usually made Clarice feel better. Uncle would already be out in the field, hungry since the crack of dawn, and Auntie was generous with the grease. Bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, toast, coffee, or orange juice banished the dread in her mind and Clarice couldn't help but offer a toothy, grateful grey morning, the terror of coyote wails was replaced by a choir of shrieks coming from the barn. The morning after that, Clarice didn't come down for breakfast.

She was already awake in the pale hours, trailing Uncle and barely scraping by him as he got into his pickup truck and roared across the property. Clarice was dressed in a thin, striped shirt and her ripped jeans. Her black rubber boots were sucked down by the ground sprinkled with dew. Walking was slow. She made it to the post and saw Hannah at the far edge of the field, at least a hundred yards away from the barn. The barn doors sat open thirty yards away off to her right. She saw one of the two men that helped Uncle in his dirty coveralls and thick apron. He sat on a large freight box and took out a cigarette, lit it, and stared out over the field into the wide early morning sky. Shortly another man joined him, and Clarice could hear the faint sound of their talk and laughter. Both were big men. Gradually their conversation faded so that they were left smoking in silence, looking relentlessly out to the matted land.

Clarice pressed a cold hand to her hot forehead, knowing she had to make a run for it. She closed her eyes and worked up her courage. Then she was off and moving through the gate and field. Her boots clutched at the damp earth and her lungs seized with strain. She came up against the enclosure, momentarily collecting her breath. Then she grabbed the halter and its ropes by the entrance, stealing a glance back to the barn. The two men were looking in her direction and pointing. Clarice crouched, intimidated by Hannah pawing and stomping in the grass. The adrenaline in her veins caused her to shake. She imagined glowing coyote eyes and torn animal fur and gnashing teeth and before she could let herself think much more, she went for Hannah.

She was careful not to come up on the chestnut horse right away and reached slowly for Hannah's haunches, clucking and cooing between breaths. She ran her palms down the length of Hannah's body, talking the whole time in a soft, sweet voice, quickly checking on the men. The horse's big muscles twitched with unease and she snorted, jerking her head. At any minute she could run all-out, away and out of reach. Once Clarice was calmly in front of Hannah, she heard the sheep bey louder. She sensed trouble near; the coyotes were on the prowl.

"You were living with relatives, and then one morning you ran away with Hannah." Doctor Lecter said slowly. "Tell me why."

"There's-there's nothing to tell, Doctor. I just ran away."

"Not just, Clarice. What set you off?" He leaned forward. "You started at what time?"

"Early, still dark. It was very cold, so very cold."

Clarice crouched on the ground strewn with hay. Cold air burrowed into the cut flesh of her palms and swept over her wet and muddy boots. She crawled against the barn floor's dust, forcing herself forward despite the choir of screams. They made her want to cry. So Clarice made her hands into fists instead, feeling them sting, and peered around the corner. She saw the lambs cowering in their pens, stunned and screaming. She'd cuddled them close so many times, savoring their soft fur and the kissing of her knuckles. And, in a small way, with each arrival they might have reminded her of the children she would never have, of how quickly that part of life sped right past her. They were trusting and complicit. There was no way to get them all moving in the same direction out of the barn and Clarice didn't think they would all go anyway.

Two men were milling about, dressed in dark, heavy clothing. They moved through the crowded pens, a space dense with the smell of blood, manure, and sweat, and the clamoring of confused animals. One of the men held a gory knife. He was methodically moving to the far end of the barn. The other man was stringing up a lamb. Clarice crept forward and opened the pen to her left. The lambs shrieked immediately, backing away from the gate. Clarice tried to make them move, her heart thundering in her chest, a loud rush gathering in her ears. She inched out of the pen. The long creak of a gate as it swung open made her focus. Three lambs were huddled together, oddly silent. Clarice felt her determination come alive. Through the slats of wood, wind filtered into the barn.

"What are you doing here, little girl?"

Clarice froze and slowly turned towards the sound of the harsh voice. She saw that the man's face was leathery, his eyes shadowed by a heavy brow. He walked forward and she backed away from him, her eyes darting to the open pen near the barn door. He came closer still and she could smell something off him, a raw smell mixed with cigarette smoke, coffee, and the essence of closed spaces. There was a moment of utter stillness as they watched each other tensely, a moment that hardened their stance, neither of them knowing what would happen next.

Then he grabbed Clarice's arm, twisting it, and she jumped. "Hey, little girl, not so fast!" His cold touch, the roughness of his grip, frightened her and she jerked her arm from him. Stumbling, she pushed him away. "Hey!" He hollered to the other man with the knife. Clarice darted into the pen and scooped a trembling lamb into her arms. The men were shouting, their gruff tone resembling the low snarl of a predator. Clarice bashed open the barn door and she ran. Behind the barn, the mountains that bordered the field were covered in spindly beech and poplar whose trunks rocked in the breeze. In front of the barn, the field was flat and stretched into the dark. Clarice was glad the morning frost hardened the ground, giving her purchase as she barreled across the field. The taste in her mouth was sour; her arms were so heavy; and the screams in her head weren't fading, not even when she was far enough away from the barn to halt near Hannah's enclosure and heave air into her lungs.

Her arms hurt. She could feel spasms of exhaustion crawling up her legs. The lamb's racing heart was hammering against her chest. Its mournful eyes blinked up at her. Clarice tucked its head into the crook of her arm and shifted its weight. She scanned the field. The lights were on at the house, points of warm gold that pierced the black shroud around her. Everything was suddenly quiet, too quiet, and though she couldn't see the men, she was sure a pair of large, spark-filled eyes gazed down on her. Spooked, she turned her head to the motionless woods. They were too far and filled with gnashing teeth.

The barn door burst open and then the two men were running. With a burst of speed that seemed to crack open her chest, Clarice made for the gravel path beyond the house. She hung onto the lamb tightly. The sizzling, incoherent feeling of being prey nipped at her heels; it pushed her past the boundaries of exhaustion and possibility. Uncle's property was swallowed by the dark when she turned to look at it. She set off quickly down the back road. The sound of gravel crunching underneath her frantic footsteps gave her a sense of stability. The gentle, fuzzy strokes of the lamb's tongue as it licked her left hand made her manage a smile. Her arms shook but she still pressed on, obeying the fervent thoughts which clattered around in her skull like broken pieces of glass.

Clarice was numb. By the time she noticed that the crunch of gravel had shifted to resemble plowing tires, the Sheriff's car pulled up beside her. The last of her strength fled and when he pried the twitching lamb from her arms, she couldn't resist. He gave her a ride back to Uncle's property. It took no time at all, Clarice noticed glumly. It felt like she'd gone farther into the dark than she really had. Auntie took her into the house, ran a hot bath for her, and seemed to forget about the whole thing. All day, Clarice stared across the field from her window, stared at the barn and felt hardened by anger. When Auntie dragged her in the next morning, Uncle was pacing the living room and chewing on tobacco. When he saw Clarice, he spit it out. His concern leaned toward her, filling the room with an unnerving energy, bordering on savage. Auntie stood beside him and crossed her arms as he spoke.

"First you cost me a good lamb, a load of good money. Then this morning you stole one of my best horses. What have you got to say for yourself, missy?"

"Nothin'."

Clarice thought the room was larger, or that her sense of balance was a little off. Her thoughts were jolting around the same damn thing, over and over. She realized suddenly that she didn't like Auntie and Uncle, that they smelled the same way the big men in the barn smelled. And they all smelled like the stinking coyotes with their glowing eyes. The narrowed the same way, fixed on her now, and she could see her small reflection against their pitiless eyes.

"When we took you in we thought you wouldn't be no trouble." Auntie snapped.

"You've done lotsa damage, Clarice. Your folks shoulda raised you better than they did."

Clarice bit her tongue. She felt the anger growl between every thud of her heart and hoped that even in the silence some of it would rise in her eyes.

"I told you never to go in the barn. I told you, didn't I?" Uncle said. "Well if you can't do what you're told like a good girl, only the Lord can help you. Your folks aint around, an' I know the perfect place in Bozeman just for you." He jerked his head at Auntie. "Get her things. I'll start the truck."

She watched Auntie and Uncle shuffle away, twisting apart in the indifference of the room. She didn't move. She didn't have to; her hearing improved when she was still. Her own passivity hurt, right between her ribs, through her neck, her fingertips, and stung her eyes. Uncle came back in, tossing words at her that made the volume in her head louder.

"Get movin'. Are you deaf? We're getting rid of you, no more trouble! You're going away." He crossed the room, bending to look her in the face. "Y'hear me, Clarice?"

"Yessir."

Clarice didn't make a sound the whole drive to the Lutheran Orphanage. It was buried deep inside Bozeman, as if to make sure that the wide fields and the cramped city buildings never touched. Uncle dumped her with a suitcase at the Orphanage's front door. Clarice hauled it up the steps and stood in the foyer. The checkered floor was cracked. Some kind of smoke contaminated the air, bordering on wax but it was really closer to ash. A chained chandelier was suspended from the ceiling, and behind the wooden registration desk, where a woman holding a small cross advanced towards Clarice, was the tapestry of Abraham and Isaac, a reminder of the ultimate sacrifice.

"What became of your lamb, Clarice?" Doctor Lecter asked softly.

"They killed him."

Doctor Lecter blinked and his head dropped a fraction. Clarice thought he looked very kind from that angle. "Clarice, what happened is not your fault."

"Yeah, right. Children always get the shit end of life 'cos life's not fair."

"No, it is not. You can't save all the lambs."

"I have to try."

"But why?"

Clarice swallowed hard. Her throat was bone dry. "'Cos I know I can."

"I don't care about the lives you save. I care about your life."

"Well I was wrong." Doctor Lecter waited for more, his hands clasped tightly together and his eyes carefully devouring her. "I grabbed that poor lamb an' I ran away as fast as I could. In the end that didn't matter. So I figured I'd adjust my method, Doctor, because _that's_ what matters. I adapted. I evolved."

"You are becoming. The consequence of your evolution is killing. Yet killing seems to be the opposite of saving lives. Fighting violence with violence is an impossible goal, Clarice."

"The threat produces the victim. Not the other way around."

"And when the hunter eventually becomes the hunted," Doctor Lecter said, "what happens to the lambs?"

"It's not the lambs I'm after. It's the coyotes."


	16. Chapter 16

The place a bit outside of time, where another kind of life might be possible, was a constant temptation for Lecter. It was a strange and mad idea he felt compelled to find, and he had to face it in his memory palace in order to be able to explain it to Clarice. Perhaps someday, she could truly stand with him where they could observe time without suffering any of its consequences. Now was not the time or place to pursue that thread of thought, however. Lecter allowed it to unravel along with the echo of Clarice's words. Her voice washed over him like a stream. There was a quality to it he had never heard before. He wished his own was as impressive.

"Thank you, Clarice."

"Thank you, Doctor Lecter."

His eyes sparkled. Then he pressed a finger to his lips and winked. When Clarice saw what he'd scribbled down on the legal pad, she stiffened.

CHILTON IS LISTENING

Lecter stood up. Barney was squeaking over. He dragged the folded chair away to his table. Clarice watched the procession with a crease of desperate worry on her brow."What's going on?"

"Director Chilton does not value privacy, my dear. I suspect that Mason Verger, through the efforts of our willing and eager friend, has taken an unfortunate interest in our work." Lecter said through gritted teeth.

"Who's Mason Verger?"

"The owner of Muskrat Farm and sole heir to all its slaughter. If society cared about morality, he would be no one of consequence. His vile brand of discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me. I never thought I could treat him for his pedophilia. It's part of our obligation as psychiatrists to try, you see, but I disagreed. He invited me to his home one evening. I offered him an amyl pill laced with Angel Dust and acid." Lecter met Clarice's stunned gaze as his own warmed at the fond memory. "I suggested that he should peel his face off and feed it to his mangy dogs. He graciously obliged."

"I don't understand." Clarice's face tightened, twitching between expressions that revealed her deepening shades of shock. "You killed your patient?"

"Oh, no. He survived."

A pause. "What about Benjamin Raspail?"

"He was killed by Buffalo Bill, as you know." Lecter shrugged. "But I will admit, his thymus and pancreas made a delicious meal."

He did so enjoy watching Clarice's mind work. Behind her eyes he saw many windows align. He watched a paradox unfold: Clarice recoiled and, at the same time, she embraced; Clarice shone from the light of comprehension within, and she retreated into her shadow. She asked hoarsely, "How many people have you killed and...eaten?"

"Many more than you. Shall we keep score?"

"You should be in here with me."

"Clarice, I'm touched."

"Doctor-"

"We do not need to change, you and I. We can be free, just as we are." 

Lecter's suggestion made Clarice unstable. She fell silent and paled. A fragment of time was all that was required for her to make up her mind. He would not nudge her in any particular direction. When she finally asked the long anticipated question, he rejoiced.

"Why, Doctor Lecter?"

"I had...a sister. Her name was Mischa."

No amount of preparation was enough to save him for how quickly he fell through the depths of his memory palace. He groped around in the darkness at the center of his mind for a latch that could be found by touch alone. Hannibal stepped through the open door without a sound. Here, his vast corridors gave way to projections against crumbling stone walls eaten away by bombs. It was best if he envisioned his earliest years as film reels, bleak and poorly edited. Those years differed from the others because they were incomplete; some scenes ended up on the killing floor. Some were static scenes, fragmentary, like painted mural shards held together by blank plaster. Other projections held sound and motion, great snakes wrestling and heaving in the dark and lit in flashes. Pleas and screaming filled some places on the grounds beyond the walls and those were exactly the places he needed to visit. Here in the hot darkness the beast within turned over in its slumber and opened its eyes.

Hannibal reached beside him and clasped Mischa's hand. They were huddled together in front of the fireplace downstairs. Father was tearing pages from their beloved library books and tossing them into the flames. Mother was upstairs, rummaging through drawers in search of more matches. Hannibal gave up on asking when they would return to Lecter Castle months ago; the depths of winter were clawing at the thick door of their hunting lodge and cold managed to twist its fingers around them anyway. The lodge was deep in the forest. Father said this meant they were out of reach.

Blitzkrieg, Hitler's lightning war, had been faster than anyone imagined. To make matters worse, his efforts were aided by Hilfswillige, or Hiwis, locals who volunteered to help the invading Nazis. Many deserted the main force altogether, while others formed splinter groups and hunted in packs. Hannibal didn't know who Hitler was, and Mischa wasn't old enough to understand the squawking that came from the radio on the table, so it didn't really matter. During those bitter days the Lecter family cared only about each other.

The day when they could no longer care arrived with two explosions. The first decimated the land in front of the lodge. Father and Mother rushed outside, wading through smoke and licked by tongues of fire, yelling in confusion and crippled with terror. The husk of a tank was billowing smoke into the sky. Pieces of it were fused together, glowing with heat. Corpses of soldiers were strewn around it, almost like roadkill. Hannibal held Mischa's hand tightly as they peered through the front door, hesitating at the threshold. Father was looking up at the sky. Mother was looking at Hannibal and Mischa, a scream frozen in her throat. The second explosion was a burst of earth and bone and blood and fire. Hannibal's ears were still ringing in the sudden quiet aftermath. That night while his sister slept, Hannibal watched the wolves eat what remained of Father and Mother.

From here, the memories always skipped. Hannibal melting snow in a cup, his throat parched; Hannibal breaking pieces of the last loaf of bread, softening it in his mouth to transfer to Mischa; the two of them sobbing in the dark and burning more books, finding no solace in the heat. Hannibal forgot to sleep more and more often. He was awake when the door to the hunting lodge was thrown off its hinges. Six men entered, scrawny and stinking, their eyes sunken deep into their skulls. Their sallow skin was bitten with cold, barely covering their bones. They shouted to each other in scraps of German and French, but their Lithuanian gave them away as Hiwis. The man wearing a black jacket and brandishing a Luger ransacked the pantry. The noise woke Mischa. She burrowed into Hannibal with a whine. The man slowly looked up at them, barked an order, and licked his lips. 

The singular quality of a predator is the ability to lure prey. Those six men, those unworthy occupiers of the Lecter hunting lodge, did not pretend to any civility, yet they were effective at charming Mischa. When they managed to slaughter a deer that had stumbled out of the forest, they offered the children the juiciest pieces. Hannibal secretly gave most of his to Mischa, bearing the gnawing hunger in his belly by imagining his favourite meals. He unknowingly fed the beast inside him while he starved. Mischa giggled when the men pinched her skin and whispered to each other, and she liked it when they sang her that song, the one that implored her to come play. Weeks passed without the hope of any more deer. Hannibal was weak, shivering with sweat. When they dragged Mischa downstairs, he clung to her hand. When they sang to her in awfully sweet voices, Hannibal tried to whisper to Mischa not to pay attention. When the man with the Luger pried Mischa away, Hannibal couldn't resist. He saw the front door open, saw the singing men drag Mischa outside in the pristine white snow, heard her scream his name, and when the door slammed shut he heard the fall of an axe. The singing stopped.

Hannibal surrendered to delirium, and the most damaging scenes became the most damaged over the years. Much time had been lost; Hannibal sobbing, the men beating him, the men eating broth, pieces of meat floating to the surface, the men forcing the broth down Hannibal's throat. Hannibal writhing and screaming after them as they abandoned the lodge; Hannibal stumbling towards the dark forest, trading the irony of his freedom for the trials of boarding school. After the war, he blossomed like death blossoms, quickly and in taciturnity. He accumulated knowledge in layers that pressed down upon those scenes from winter; he was so ruthless he collapsed his mind in on itself many times. Hannibal chose to remember that he woke up one day to the scent of cherry blossoms and a woman with raven black hair singing in Japanese.

"My aunt Murasaki taught me that while expression of manners varies across cultures, their end is one and the same: respect for another person's life." Lecter said. "By demonstrating good manners, we acknowledge that life deserves dignity and has intrinsic value. Quite simply, those who are rude disrespect life."

It was something of a miracle that Lecter could function at all. He was shaking, pacing restlessly, and rubbing his eyes as if he could scrub parts of his life away. He owed his grip on sanity to Clarice's presence. Her reactions had been limited. She was looking at him now. Her lips trembled.

"You ate Mischa."

"I didn't know I ate my sister. The men who butchered her did not extend the basic courtesy of informing me what I was putting in my mouth."

He said all this in a quaint, matter-of-fact tone, although his voice contained flecks of rust that deepened his metallic rasp and his shivering, wet timbre seemed to overtake every syllable.

"Doctor, did it ever occur to you that those men were just surviving? Maybe manners had nothing to do with it. What do you think?"

Lecter struggled to calm his breathing. "I hunted them down, and I ate each and every one of them. I thought that after avenging Mischa, I would kill myself. There seemed nothing else left to do. Instead, I found that there is no end to the rude. Just as there is no end to the plight of your lambs, Clarice, because there is no end to the coyotes. I am afraid that you and I are doomed to satisfy our cravings endlessly."

"That's beautiful."

"Cannibalism is usually not an acceptable response, Clarice. It is not beautiful. But it may become, on occasion, a necessary response."

Lecter was certain that Clarice would understand. Her innocence was bloody, and therefore all the sweeter for it. She still retained the same curiosity as Mischa, that shiver of discovering the world through the uncomplicated eyes of a child, and coupled it with her fierce conviction as a young woman. Given time, Lecter was certain that Mischa would have grown up to be just like Clarice Starling.

"Please don't lie to me, Doctor."

"I'm not."

"Then what has all this been about? What have you been doing to me?" Clarice's voice was splintering. "You've been breaking me down!"

"No. This journey has been about testing your boundaries, pushing you. All intended to build your confidence. To make you more self-reliant, and more self-aware than when you started. I promise, this was not, and will never be about making you feel like you're less of a person. What we're doing-what I do for you- is about building you up, not breaking you down, Clarice. It requires truth. I want you to be more in touch with all of the person you are. All your desires, no matter how...different. And it all starts with what you want. What do you want, Clarice?"

"I need you to leave me alone, Doctor Lecter." 

Lecter's heart slammed painfully against his ribs when he saw that Clarice was crying. She didn't wipe the tears away. Her note of anger probably belonged in his strange composition, but that did not make it any easier to hear. When Clarice turned away, Lecter felt a weight pull down through his chest. All of his plans, his fears, his hopes, belonged to this moment. This might be all the time they would ever have.

"Clarice," Lecter called, "your case file."

He marked the slow turn of her head, the spill of her hair, the shine of surprise in her glistening eyes as he stretched his arm into the cage. Clarice reached for the file, and he brushed his forefinger against hers. The touch resonated deep within him and crackled in his eyes.

"Goodbye, Clarice."

Hundreds of threads of possibility and endless streams of questions assailed Lecter as he sat in his car. He hadn't started the engine. He could barely manage to get a firm hold of himself. A part of him was still wandering the halls of his memory palace in a daze, while he added the feel of Clarice's skin to her room. He allowed himself to place his hands on her shoulders and gently shift the bathrobe aside. He allowed himself to feel gratitude, and it buried his fear. But uncertainty gnawed at him, just as hunger did. The beast had awakened and would not fall into slumber again. It snarled questions at Lecter that cracked the walls of his skull. What would Clarice think about his recollections of that terrible winter? She had accepted the file, which was encouraging. Did she understand? Did she know what a gift it was to see him, to know him? Would she approve of what he'd given her? Most of it was intangible, pure energy communicated across time and space. He strove to, incorporate as much of Clarice into his life as possible. He'd adapted to her. What would she do with the Spyderco Harpy he'd tucked somewhere between her psychological evaluation and the annotations he'd scrawled?

Time presented itself as an infinite phenomenon. There was either not enough of it or too much, but it never ran out. Clocks ticked away, seasons changed, days become months, and even then, it was possible to stand completely still. Hannibal Lecter had moved Clarice Starling, and in doing so, he'd been moved as well. On the plains of time, the result was inconsequential, but between them, they could create a place a bit outside of time where another kind of life might be possible.

Hannibal Lecter rested his trembling hands on the steering wheel and wept.


	17. Chapter 17

"Errors were made."

Senator Ruth Martin said this with the practiced detachment of a seasoned politician. She believed she wasn't the one who had made those errors. She was the one who uncovered them, and felt duty bound to say it face-to-face. Ardelia Mapp took one look at her and decided she'd already heard enough bullshit to tide her over for the rest of her life. The Senator was wearing an olive green suit which had the odd effect of blending her in with the office. Filing cabinets and stacks of law books towered behind her. The desk was a mess of papers stamped with official looking seals. While the office was disorganized, the Senator offered every appearance of composure. The neat parting of her hair to the right, the dismissal flaring from her eyes, and the haughty posture with which she sat in the brown leather chair made Ardelia bristle.

"What I want to know is who made those errors, Senator."

"The FBI and the Justice Department already have a tenuous relationship. Are you sure you want to be worsening it by blaming me, Agent Mapp?"

"You authorized Jack Crawford for the Buffalo BIll raid, and Brigham was supposed to authorize us lowly Agents to haul his ass in." Ardelia said between clenched teeth. "I'm just following the chain of command. Tell me what's missing."

Senator Martin adjusted the golden broach on her lapel. "My secretary told me you wanted to discuss legislation."

"I lied. I want the truth."

"You're making this personal."

Ardelia stuck her right leg out, lifting her pants so that the Senator could see the grisled scar tissue. "You're damn right I am. A lot of good Agents died in their line of duty, including a friend of mine."

"Then you put your faith in the wrong people, Agent Mapp. I'd say their incompetence was the reason for the errors."

"No, It's external interference. There were people on our team who didn't belong there, and that never would have happened without the oversight of the Justice Department."

"Are you suggesting I was influenced by an outsider?"

"Whoever you're protecting might not be protective of you. And protecting them won't bring Catherine back."

Senator Martin inhaled sharply. Ardelia had prodded a leaking wound, and she felt triumphant as her own blood raced. The rush was always the same, the narrowing of her world to its most essential accompanied by a heightened awareness of her own place in it. The back of her mind tingled ever since she'd pointed the gun at Mopey Ed, and the blistering chaos of the moment hadn't left. Its righteous residue flavoured every thought. She learned to identify with her wrath. 

"Since you're here off the record," said Senator Martin cooly, "so are my answers. I was approached by a longtime benefactor of the FBI. He was supposed to do what they couldn't, as long as I turned a blind eye."

"That sure turned out great. How much were you bribed with?"

"I paid him."

"Who is he, Senator?"

"Mason Verger."

"What does he get for his money?"

"Perhaps you should ask Mason Verger yourself."

Ardelia thought the name would mean more. She blistered her eyes for a night looking through archives. The Verger family's official history was repeated across the public record the same way private lies are repeated over and over with the same intonation and intent. Muskrat Farm struck Ardelia as a chateau of lies, with its stables and pens looming over the wooden fence perimeter of the sprawling property. Beyond the mansion was the barn. Ardelia realized she'd approached it from the back road which was little more than a spread of dirt running parallel to a ditch. She got out of the Mustang and shaded her eyes. The metal gate was padlocked. Traces of Italian reached Ardelia's ears; some men were hauling boxes in and out of the barn in time to opera music. She climbed over the gate, landed lightly on her feet, and scampered along the road leading to the mansion. A particularly menacing looking man broke from the group and approached her. His arms were heavily tattooed and his ropey muscles dripped with sweat. He drew near enough for Ardelia to see that his face was marked with scars. His breath stank of garlic.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm Special Agent Ardelia Mapp. I'm looking for Mason Verger."

The man curled his lip. He turned and barked something in Italian, too quickly for Ardelia to catch more than a back and forth of names: Carlo and Matteo. She supposed the scrawny man walking over was Matteo. He shared his brother's stubborn, steely eyes and drooping shoulders. Carlo and Matteo flanked Ardelia as they walked and spoke in slow, Rick voices. She felt like reaching into her squirming insides and drawing them out just so she could remove the uncertainty coiled there. A sense of dread fell over her as she entered the mansion. Its opulence was burdensome, though it seemed bereft of warm human presence. When Ardelia was younger she could be alone for weeks and never realize that it was time to miss another person, time to call another person on the phone, but she realized suddenly that she missed Clarice. Again. Here and now.

Through the polished hallways and past the veil of curtains, Ardelia walked through a large room that was more clinical than cozy. On top of a four poster bed surrounded by TVs and speakers, something was wearing clothes. Something was breathing. Then it was speaking. Ardelia's spine was in danger of being demolished.

"Carlo, I can smell you from here. Has your little brother pissed himself lately?"

Matteo looked at his feet. Carlo bowed his head like a bull and approached the bed. He mumbled, which seemed to please the thing. Ardelia thought it reeked of stale misery and the way old people rot away, fearing the coming of death. 

"Leave us."

Carlo glared at Ardelia. He gestured towards the bed. She got as close as she could take.

"Are you Mason Verger?"

"Yes."

Ardelia's spine stiffened. As the lights rose, so did her revulsion. The thing became a man with pale arms and a wasted body. It was hard to accept that there was a mind behind the single, cold eye. Ardelia looked at Mason's misshapen face and words tangled in her throat. She swallowed some spit to liven up her voice.

"What happened to you?"

"My psychiatrist, Hannibal Lecter."

"Oh." Confusion flared in Ardelia's eyes.

"I thank God for what happened. It was my salvation. Have you accepted Jesus into your life, Agent Mapp? Do you have faith?"

"I have faith. But not that kind."

"What kind of faith could be better than that of the Risen Jesus?"

"My own."

"Do you like swine?" Mason hissed.

"I'm vegetarian."

"I'm a businessman. While many might say that all human beings are of equal value, I don't agree. What would be the fun in that? See, while I think that we are all born with equal potential, I firmly believe that some human beings are worth more than others based on the skill sets they develop. And what those skill sets can provide to others. In raw terminology we are judged on this worth every day. We are bought and sold and traded like commodities."

"People aren't commodities, Mister Verger."

"They can be just as useful."

"Like Senator Martin." Ardelia snapped. "What was she useful for?"

"Buffalo Bill."

"Why would you care about him?"

"As well as being a businessman, I'm also a concerned citizen. If I have the power to stop him, why wouldn't I?"

"Because it's not your job."

Mason's wheezing filled the room. It continued to rattle in Ardelia's skull while she drove to the asylum. She was sticky, rusting away with slippery resentment and the hard edge of exasperation. No one told her that she needed to go see Clarice, no one expected it from her. Third time's the charm. Ardelia watched the lines dividing the right and wrong sides of the road blur. The sun was dropping low behind her, slowly impaling itself on the unmerciful horizon. It caught the rear view mirror, trying to stop its heated colour from bleeding out. Ardelia really wanted to slam the brakes-maybe even slam the breaks-and turn the Mustang 'round so she could drive right into the sun. The ground had a line, like a seam. It could carry her home, back to her side of the duplex, and she could make herself some tea and stare out the window until it got dark.

One time, Ardelia read in National Geographic about a parasite that lived in water and entered the skin of human beings, went to the head, and caused loss of sight. This condition, she learned, was sometimes called river blindness. Ardelia stayed away from natural rivers. And from artificial rivers named after people like Jim Beam and Johnny Walker and Jack Daniels. Clarice enjoyed a glass of Jack now and then, Ardelia remembered as she got out of the car and scuttled into the asylum. Clarice was pretty sharp. Sharp and pretty.

Now Clarice looked tired, judging from the circles under her eyes. They gave her a haunted, forlorn appearance.

"How've you been?"

"Alright. You look better."

"You should see the scar. " Ardelia huffed with a toss of her braids. "How're things with Doctor Lecter?"

"He hasn't come 'round for a while."

Ardelia described her disappointing meeting with Mason Verger and Clarice winced at the mention of Doctor Lecter's name. "You'd better be careful. If Doctor Lecter could do that to Mason…"

"He got what he deserved."

Ardelia stared for a moment, then chuckled bitterly. "God, I understand you. It scares me how much I understand you."

"Do you?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me."

"You're that feeling when someone turns their head away as they walk past a graveyard, or when they see roadkill. You're what makes someone want to turn on the light even when it isn't dark out. You're a goddamn sinkhole, Clarice. A wink in the earth. And I understand you because I once wanted to fall into myself and never crawl back out. All it would have taken was a trigger pull. Just like that. Easy. But I couldn't do it."

"Killing isn't easy."

"So you say."

"It's not easy, but once it's done, it's done. An' I don't think about it nomore."

"On to the next one, right?" Ardelia sneered.

"Right."

"Damn you! You've crossed lines you never invited me to cross."

"It doesn't matter how many lines you cross, as long as they lead you back to me." Clarice said softly.

Ardelia thought that it was an odd and wonderful fact of life that we can only ever experience someone else from our point of view. She understood that people disappeared and changed and sometimes they died or came back different and still didn't fit in. She thought that her own mind was an abbreviation of Clarice's. And she knew they fell into whatever it was they had and were, whatever it was that had saved them and left them together, waiting to learn what it really was, what was really there.

"Goodbye, Clarice."

"Goodbye, Ardelia."


	18. Chapter 18

Hannibal Lecter checked the incorrect impulse to talk to Clarice Starling for what seemed like the millionth time in just the last few minutes. Instead of smashing the decanter on his desk, he watched his patient files burn in the fireplace. It was a fitting pyre for his past. He had too much in front of him, and not enough left behind. While it was quiet and flooded with moonlight in the corridors of his mind, one room always radiated sunlight and chaos. Lecter thought of Clarice's voice: perfected, yet smoky and intoxicating. She balanced so well on the cliff's edge of pain, making experimental reaches that nearly always worked. Lecter took and held her heart, regal and strong. He pressed his lips against it. A beat shuddered through him. Clarice did not whither away into the flames because she had insight, cold and honest.

Lecter was clinging to it because he'd reached ahead of time itself and set events into motion that could determine their future. He placed a change of plain clothes in his briefcase. He had procured a first class airplane ticket, a finely forged passport, arranged for alternative travel papers, and wired money to Doctor Fell's account in Florence. Waiting meant that he had to chew his uncertainty carefully. Waiting meant pondering the distance between the wish and the well. It meant aching to savour the sound of the coin finally hitting water. Lecter wondered if it was wrong to want more. He put pen to paper and bled out his hope that he and Clarice could gradually become one person, or maybe two persons in one being, as Aquinas might say. Perhaps they could even transubstantiate and become a problem in philosophy, or theology. Lecter placed Clarice's letter thoughtfully into his briefcase along with everything else. He was full of thoughts, some of them rational. He resisted the almost instinctual urge to drive straight for the asylum and instead stopped at Quantico, bringing the night with him.

Jack Crawford was clearing out his office. He'd pushed his desk to the back, leaving cascades of paper in its wake. He was wading through sheets and kicking a box around when Lecter rapped his knuckles sharply on the door.

"Good evening, Jack. Are you leaving?"

"Doctor Lecter." Crawford grunted and twisted around. "I'm searching for something."

"Oh, I understand."

"Can I help you?"

"I just thought I'd pop in and ask if you've given any more thought to transferring Clarice."

"I have."

"And?"

"There's no point." Crawford shrugged.

"Then what is the purpose of her being institutionalized?"

"I don't understand the question."

"Are you attempting to rehabilitate or punish Clarice? If it's rehabilitation, I recommend Solution-Focused Brief Therapy."

"There's no way someone like her is fit to get back into society." Crawford said. "I told you, I want to understand Starling. If there's even a small chance your profile and our psych evals can help catch another monster like her, I'll take it."

"I see. You think your blunt little tools can dissect Clarice? Perhaps she's too much of a monster."

"I don't really have a name for what she is. Psychopath, maybe."

"Clarice is not a psychopath, I assure you." Lecter said sharply.

"Then what's her motive? You can't expect me to believe her bullshit story about some lambs." Crawford crossed his arms. "We try to give killers motive. But they don't have any. I'm realizing Starling isn't different."

"I didn't expect a Behavioural Science man to say that."

"Based on what you've given me I can't draw any other conclusion."

Lecter shot Crawford a withering glare. "You're choosing to ignore the insight she's given us. Imagine what kind of insight she'll offer if she's in another environment entirely."

"Supposing she wants to keep talking to you."

"Well Jack, there's only one way for us to find out."


	19. Chapter 19

When Clarice finally opened her case file, she'd half expected to find doodles of hearts on the pages. The words Doctor Lecter attached to her came alive with his flowing script. It was as if she could hear him speaking close to her ear with a voice as smooth and elegant as velvet, and as powerful as the ocean. She flipped through his mental descriptions and physical insinuations, searching for logic in the midst of an emotional storm. It roiled like timpanis, it blared like trumpets; she heard the sound of empire resonating. She could sense the aphrodisia and lust for power that seduced her heart and filled her head with glory and hubris.

Black ink strained through the dry paper, and halfway through the file, it produced a Spyderco Harpy. Clarice was afraid to touch it at first, her eyes wide and lucid. The frigid metal blade clicked open from the handle which was small enough for her to palm comfortably. It was shaped like a talon and had a serrated edge suited for tearing through skin and muscle and tissue. Almost like teeth, Clarice thought. She had finally claimed her own heritage, and in her cathedral, the bell tolled once more. She dipped her fingers in the font, and they came away stained with blood. Slowly and steadily, she placed her wet fingers into her mouth and sucked, tasting iron.

Clarice flicked the Harpy open and closed over and over. It was her inheritance. To her surprise Barney appeared, unlocked the cage silently, and left. With this came a certain understanding: it was only half strange that Doctor Lecter was a murderer, because he was the architect of Clarice's cathedral of dreams. It was wonderful and painful that he had gouged out her sense of security. Doctor Lecter had an obligation to see her, yes. But he had no obligation to set her free. The storm inside Clarice increased in intensity and her hands trembled. Wind scattered thoughts around, heavy grey clouds raced low over the fields, and she heard the blast of brass in the storm warning of impending menace and collapse. She knew it was not her own. And then the storm dissolved with a flourish, as if every doubt she'd ever had cascaded to the ground, never to rise again.


	20. Chapter 20

Outside the Baltimore State Hospital For The Criminally Insane, the wind howled in black applause because the darkness was sharpening its teeth. After hours visitors were encouraged to register and report to Director Chilton, but this late at night, none of the staff stuck around. With the exception of a certain orderly that had accidently left the front door unlocked and vacated the premises shortly after midnight, the asylum was gleefully claimed by the shadows spilling between cracks of light and gnawing thoughtfully through corridors, doorways, keyholes, and stairs.

Inside the largest windowless room, where the wooden floors groaned in torment, where a single lamp tried to stave off the gloom that reached between the bars, stood a young woman. Her hair was disheveled, as if it took a liking to the wilderness. Her posture was false because it was relaxed and proper, masking the untamed nature of the heart thundering inside. The illusion was of safety and complicity, betrayed oh so slightly by the twinkle of steel in her hand. When the door to the room opened, Clarice Starling looked up to see Doctor Lecter escorting Jack Crawford to her cage.

She bit off her surprise and offered a pleasant smile. "I'll be damned. Mister Crawford, it's been a while."

"Starling." Crawford looked stricken. He was pale and shuddered from Doctor Lecter's presence at his shoulder. "You look fine."

"I've been on my best behaviour." 

Crawford really did look like he was going to be sick. His eyes were sunken and dull. They kept darting around the room. Clarice thought that Doctor Lecter blended in nicely with the shadows. His eyes have out a spark, caught her attention, glowed in the dark. These two men wrecked and rebuilt her, and it felt like an indictment. Pressure built in her chest. Some weird feeling was swirling in her gut. Her mind lowered itself to a level where the difference between instinct and intelligence was no difference at all.

"Mister Crawford, you owe me. I'd like to settle our little debt."

"Don't get fresh, Starling."

Clarice Starling stood before the door of the cage and felt no fear. Conviction grounded and anchored her mind. She breathed deeply. Then she nudged the door open and finally stepped beyond her limitations. Crawford stepped backward. He found he had nowhere to go. Panic flooded his face. His face was a collection of shattered dreams. The closer Clarice got, the more hideous they seemed.

It was neither one thing nor another, just a string of clumsy movements-blade, hand, result was the glint of steel in the back of Crawford's throat. Moods and images flickered across his eyes until his face settled into an expression of permanent shock. When the blade politely eased out of his throat, Clarice placed her hand firmly on his back. She supported his weight as blood lazily soaked at his collarbone, his shoulders, and trailed down his chest. She let Crawford's head smack against the floor. His glasses cracked.

Now I'm alive, Clarice thought.

Doctor Lecter stared at her from across the room. Something opened up between them, a path that went into an unforeseeable future.

"How do you feel, Clarice?"

She considered it. She was dizzy, her breathing was erratic, and with his voice coursing through her, she walked to him.

"Hannibal."

He waited. His briefcase dangled from his right hand. His left was clenched into a fist. Even through the indecent haze, he looked immaculate, if not composed. Clarice felt the Harpy's hard handle dig into her palm. Her fingers were sticky.

"Clarice, when I said that you can have anything you want, did you think I was excluding my life?"

She got close, close enough to smell him, close enough to see veins in his neck and the slightest signs that he should shave sometime in the next few days. Close enough for the Harpy to slash, breathless and undeniable and furious. Close enough for Clarice to rest her head on his shoulder. Her cheeks were wet by the time he entwined his fingers in her hair and gently rubbed her back. He was saying something slowly, but it wasn't in English. She didn't give a shit, just focused on his warm voice and the constant stream of words. Then she pulled away a bit, needing to speak.

"Why can't we just go? Together. Right now. Let's leave."

He glanced at Jack Crawford's corpse. He pried the Harpy away and replaced it with his briefcase. "Right now my dear, we need patience. I cannot go with you."

"You can always say I kidnapped you."

"Mmm. As enticing as that thought is, it would arouse too much suspicion. You're going to Florence. By yourself." Hannibal said firmly. "You can use my car to get to the airport. Fly away now, Clarice. Fly, fly, fly."

Clarice lingered, unwilling to fully step away from his embrace. Always smiling, though his eyes were deadly cold, Hannibal moved quickly now, both hands at her waist, pulling her toward him, holding her against him. He tilted her head up to meet his eyes. "You and I have the world we make. Together, in this moment. In the next, and the one after that. We will have all the time in the world."


	21. Chapter 21

Hannibal Lecter believed in moral fiber. After each and every so-called immoral act, a period of time was required for renewal. The exact amount of that time could only be measured by ordinary things: a bleached sunrise, the frown of a poor woman with sad hair, the smell of smoke on a crisp day, a glass of water; car alarms and city sirens, bursting flowers between cracks in the sidewalk; a half-remembered tune, or a bite of chocolate, the soft call of the wind during the rainy night. Coveting these moments was crucial for the process of renewal, for it happened all at once, in a single moment that could be a second or a year or twenty three weeks. Excess and unruliness were necessary to living. They took their toll and yet moral fiber could never seem to run out.

Anatomically speaking, it was a vein of feeling located anywhere one felt the most strongly. The heart was not always available, or the best, most obvious choice. Some people, like Hannibal Lecter, preferred to keep moral fiber in their mouths. Others preferred their ears or eyes or feet. Hannibal didn't know exactly where Clarice kept her moral fiber. She removed immorality by the handful and washed herself a thousand times but she remained indelible, an unwashable stain on the blade. He measured the time since her departure, forfeiting sleep to dwell on unforeseeable circumstance. The bones of night twisted like vines and over there, in a place he couldn't reach, she might be destroyed by waiting, like an isolated flower of flesh.

Hannibal was seething and distracted himself by preparing dinner when Ardelia knocked on the door. He took one look at her and realized that her moral fiber was in her right hand. She was distraught, a whirlwind of condemnation that tore apart his living room.

"I can't believe it, I just can't believe it!" she kept repeating.

"There is nothing you can do, Miss Mapp."

"I shoulda done something, anything. Clarice is just gone."

"Yes."

"She's killed Crawford!"

"Do you mind?"

"The pathologist said his liver was missing." Ardelia's voice was hoarse. "Why the hell didn't you stop Clarice?"

Hannibal excused himself to the kitchen. He dried his hands on a cheerful orange towel, keeping an eye on the pot simmering on the stove. He halved potatoes and sprinkled them with parsley. When he returned to the living room he answered, "I was up all last night pondering that very same question. Everything happened so quickly. I was afraid, Miss Mapp."

"Bullshit! I know what you did to Mason Verger. You don't seem like the kind of man who's afraid or who makes too many mistakes."

"I am only human. What happened to Mason, he did to himself. He is only human, too."

"Weren't you supposed to help him get better?"

"I tried."

"Oh yeah, you tried. Just how you tried to help Clarice, right?"

"If you're going to be rude, Miss Mapp, I suggest you leave at once."

Miss Mapp glared sullenly at him, and he indicated the leather couch with a lazy tilt of his head. She sat down, her braids spilling into her eyes. Hannibal sensed the burden crushing her shoulders was inextricably tied with Clarice, and accordingly prodded Miss Mapp. She replied haltingly, almost too eager to come across as reserved. Hannibal prodded further and she confessed to a delightful murderous impulse directed at the type of despicable scum that belonged in the gutter, not in the eff bee eye. He wheedled Miss Mapp, observed her clenching her right hand into a fist, the lines of worry around her mouth, and offered support. Allowed her to relax. Eased her burden. It was courtesy.

"Would you like to stay for dinner?" Hannibal asked.

"Um, what's for dinner?"

"Bacon sauté."

"No thanks, I don't eat meat."

"What a shame."

She seemed glad to have vented her frustrations, leaving with traces of apology in her eyes. Hannibal was frustrated as well, frustrated at not being able to simply stride into Mason's mansion and kill him. Frustrated at not being able to promptly pack his bags and join Clarice. With a small sigh, Hannibal supposed he could relate to Miss Mapp; she was tired, angry, shocked, and drained. Hunting for the truth had a way of doing that. Fortunately, a good meal always provided succor. A crisp aroma filled the kitchen as bacon hissed in the sauté was indeed a crucial part of the meal Hannibal was preparing; he opened the refrigerator and retrieved the fresh liver. His fingers traced the handles of knives until he decided on the most efficient one. With precise ease, he sliced the liver into pieces. He seasoned the flour with paprika, a little salt, and plenty of black pepper, then used it to coat the liver. He stirred it into the pan along with the bacon sauté.

Hannibal prepared the plate, adding the potatoes and favas beans from the pot. Carrying it over to the dining room, he noticed very abruptly that there was so much space. He sat at the head of the table. He poured himself a glass of Chianti. Smelled it. Sipped it. And managed a thin smile. Then he took a bite, and decided that the location of Jack Crawford's moral fiber was undoubtedly scrumptious.


	22. Chapter 22

If Clarice was being honest with herself, she had to admit the possibility that she might have finally lost her mind. She awoke in the bright morning feeling changed. The warmed bed sheets spilled onto the floor beside her discarded clothing. She had stumbled into the apartment half blind with exhaustion, feeling for shapes in the darkness. Now she saw more. The bedroom, with its cozy, king-sized bed and lovely desk by the window. The vase of yellow forsythia resting on top of the armoire. A black framed mirror. The wooden details in the floor and the corners. She understood why people were terrified of falling in love: it involved witnessing all of a person's little, invaluable details; the intimacy of their routine and movement through time and space. Falling in love was always different because every person was different, but falling out of love was always the same. It involved a gradual, inevitable blindness to the details. In this apartment, all she noticed were details of Hannibal Lecter.

Such careful planning might have been presumptuous from anyone else, but from him, it meant safety. There was a certain air of expectation to her standing in this room. She reached for the letter on the nightstand and finally noticed an origami folding instruction booklet beside it. More deliberate than odd. Then she understood that it was belonging, rather than expectation, that made her tear open the decadent envelope and hungrily absorb the letter.

 _Dearest Clarice,_

 _The Japanese word for "disappear" is kieuseru. Congratulations, you are free now. Your freedom is your choice. If and when you are ready for me to join you, on the first Wednesday of the month simply place an advertisement for antiques in the Baltimore Sun's classified section. Unfortunately, my own disappearance cannot be so convenient. There has been a changing of the guard, and your colleagues in the FBI are nothing if not doggedly persistent._

 _But you and I know that the truth that lies deeper than the masks we present to the world. The world lacks intuition and compassion. Will you tear off your mask someday without apology? Will you merely change it? Or will you wear it forever, satisfied that it is not a mask to me but rather the most honest, inquisitive, and unspoiled expression of your freedom?_

 _Of course, you may choose a different kind of freedom altogether. I have prepared papers so that you may leave under the guise of another woman, with me none the wiser. The women that live with you and the women you live with are one and the same. Which is to say that truly knowing yourself, uncaged and unabashed, will be a long, fulfilling process._

 _In the meantime, I do think you'll enjoy Florence. It has more than enough beauty to help pass the time. Perhaps you will care to indulge in a fond hobby of mine: certain Japanese traditions claim that if one thousand paper cranes are folded, a wish may come true. What do you wish for, Clarice? I wonder._

 _With hope,_

 _Hannibal Lecter_

Freedom and independence were no longer abstracts. Clarice didn't need to think about it. She wanted what she wanted and it was good. Her movements were economical, considerate. Until almost accidentally, she flung out her arms to stretch and revelled in the massive, uninterrupted motion. She wanted to shower, so she did. The bathroom was inviting thanks to the glass mosaic tile floor in opalescent shades of gold. There was a soaking tub, thick fluffy towels, and a shelf with an array of bottles. Clarice chose a pink one with golden script proclaiming that it was Evyan skin cream. Then her eyes drifted to a clear, bulbous bottle filled with golden liquid. A perfume, she noted, named L'air du Temps. The floral-spicy note of the carnation was in centre of its composition. Clarice sprayed it gleefully, bergamot and rosewood refined with the notes of rose and jasmine.

She wanted to explore, so she did. The entire apartment exhaled unity. Thick stone walls, ancient timber ceiling beams and cotto floors. The colours were a palette of contentment, beige and brown and off-white, with rusty-orange ceilings overhead. There was a mix of gorgeous antiques, beautiful sofas and chairs, magnificent chandeliers and inviting textiles. The kitchen was in direct relation with both the entrance and the living room, an affair of understated power in white granite tops, dark brown cupboards, and touches of red. The living room had a minimal flair, a bookshelf and tanned leather couch. Its furniture created a balance with the interior architecture, following the path of the beams and floor. Clarice felt like she was being taken by the hand and pulled forward. The direct path to the exterior area was underlined by the wooden floor that extended from the interior and onto the beautiful loggia-the covered verandah. Due to the apartment's location, cusped in the slope of the land, it was elevated and had a charming view of the quaint shops along the street.

The wardrobes were empty, and Clarice wanted clothes. So she stepped outside and saw everything through renewed eyes: blots of loose checkered shirts and summer dresses, slanted caps and pieces of gold, dark lipstick in soft focus. Some of the clothes she bought to please herself: a red jacket suit, coal coloured tweed pants, a white blouse. A pair of jeans and an olive green ponte jacket, loafers, flats, silk scarves. Others she bought to please Hannibal, an acknowledgement that gave her pause. An assortment of blouses, lingerie-some that sent a flush creeping into her cheeks-and a black and white suit with a notched collar and a clever silver two button front closure. Two dresses, in particular, stirred her pride: one was bright, with an easy flare and soft georgette that made it floaty and catching. The other was made for the evening, deep blue, strapless, and adorned with crystal embellishments.

It was possible that there didn't have to be a valley between her desires and reality. Clarice wanted to know for certain if the rest of her life could be this simple and satisfying. Florence seemed to exist in agreement, seamlessly marrying the past and the future while she rested in the present. Clarice used to believe the she could break faith with the world, before it could break faith with her. Now she couldn't remember what it was like to possess resentment or anger or worry. There wasn't any room in her for anything except a great fondness for life.

She had a fondness for the misty morning air, and the misery of the pigeons swooping down to the scattered breadcrumbs. She had a fondness for the large windows in the apartment and slept with them wide open-the midnight noises and the sticky dust settling into her sheets each night. She took lukewarm baths in the evening and sipped red wine as the water cooled and settled around her. During the day she let the city heat gather on her neck and on the tops of her thighs. She took long strides down the street, letting passersby navigate around her. She walked with her eyes down against the sunlight.

One day she grew fond of a calico cat she named Caesar. The cat had paused on the landing to lick his chest, and she recognized him by his broad face and green eyes. She'd seen him last week with a furry carcass in his mouth, his white paws daintily traversing the street. He mewed. Eventually he retreated to the empty lot adjacent to the apartment. It was overgrown with grass and weeds. Clarice came into the habit of leaving a saucer of milk on the front step, and just like that, hope joined with fondness.


	23. Chapter 23

The luxury and luck of the evening hours in Florence was straightforward. If you liked to smoke, you could find cigarettes on the corner and smoke on your terrace, drinking in the lights of the city. If you liked to walk, the streets twisted and turned in such a way that you couldn't avoid running into good company. If you liked fun, there was dancing in the piazzas and the bars were wide open. If you liked to make love, you could slip down into the velvet dark, although fucking was done best in brightly lit and possibly exposed spaces. And if you liked faith, the Duomo towered above Florence, the jewel of the Renaissance.

Rinaldo Pazzi could finally afford all the things he liked, but it was something of a tragedy that he didn't have enough time to enjoy them. People without faith chose to believe in strange things. For Pazzi, his belief in money was so strong that he hounded after it eternally. He was quick to take offence and blow minor hurt feelings or misunderstandings out of proportion, for which he would always demand some sort of payment. His wife Allegra deserved finery and attention for putting up with Pazzi, and he knew it. There were days when she walked to his room and heard nothing. On those days she crept up to his bed and stood long enough to discern his breathing, his eyes twitching in troubled sleep. Other times, they decided on a film to watch together and she sat in the chair next to him. Mostly he wanted to be left alone, shut away in his room to stew in disgrace and paperwork.

It was eight o'clock and it felt like two in the morning. Pazzi opened the window, leaning far out with a cigarette between his teeth. His cherrywood desk was covered with books, folios, and magazines. Newspaper clippings littered the space between the ashtray and the computer keyboard. The mafia didn't really _exist_ in this part of Italy, but it didn't really _have_ to; Naples, Calabria, and Sicily birthed clans that settled as far north as Tuscany. Violence and scheming were their trade. The woefully underprepared and underfunded Questura was helpless against the the drug pushers who infiltrated innocuous vegetable and fish markets, and the money launderers that kept the money pumping in like arteries pumped blood to the heart.

Pazzi gained no glory from such petty arrests. He'd lost the Buffalo Bill case months ago and heard nothing from Jack Crawford lately. His only option, then, was to turn to the FBI's Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. It was the darling pilot project of one Clint Pearsall. Currently, Pazzi's computer was idling on the homepage. The screen burned his eyes. Many of the criminals coincided with the FBI's Most Wanted list. He scrolled through it now, routinely, and suddenly primal fear gripped him. There, at the center of the page, was a face he'd seen recently, the face of Sarah N. Clericgilt. Except it wasn't, it was too ridiculous, it was really the face of Clarice Starling, wanted for several murders, still at large. And _armed._

With shaking hands, he tore through the papers on the desk until he found the firearm application. Starling's address was printed neatly at the bottom. Within half an hour, he lurked outside her apartment, smoking in the dark. A light was on. The street was quiet. He paced. A calico cat materialized from the shadows. It lapped at the saucer of milk on the front step, then upon seeing Pazzi, bolted over to rub against his legs. He swatted it away and lit another cigarette. He couldn't arrest Starling without a warrant. For all of his life, the distance between his desires and reality was always like this: in view but just out of reach.

Pazzi stalked Starling over the next few days. She frequented perfume and flower shoppes, delis and cafes, carrying herself with an effortless air of disdain. For hours on end, Pazzi would study her from a bench or a street corner or trail several steps behind. She almost noticed him once, when he tailed her for several blocks, through a crowded piazza, and then paused at a newspaper stand. At night he invented excuses for Allegra so that he could linger outside Starling's apartment and smoke. He didn't care if Allegra thought he was cheating, although he did placate her with opera tickets.

Pazzi might have reported his suspicions to the Questura. Or he might have researched Starling on the internet. It yielded one interesting result that was not a matter of her public record: a posting from a concerned citizen asking for information about Starling, and interestingly, a local Baltimore psychiatrist, Hannibal Lecter.

Pazzi scrawled the telephone number down, along with the name of the contact-Cordell-and dashed out of his house on the pretext that he'd forgotten some urgent files at the Questura. He ducked behind some pillars and claimed a payphone. It took several rings for a cool, clipped voice to answer.

"State your name and business."

"My name is Rinaldo Pazzi. I work for the Questura Di Firenze and I have information about Clarice Starling."

"What kind of information?"

"I know where she is." Pazzi said quietly, hugging the receiver. "She's right here, in Florence."

A pause. "Do you have proof?"

"Yes! Yes I do. I have her signature and address."

"Please hold."

Excruciating minutes passed.

"Pazzi." The new voice sounded wet, like some unspeakable creature was stirring awake from a long forgotten cavern. "You've got good news for me."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Mason Verger. I want Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter alive and unharmed. Well, mostly unharmed."

"Lecter? I don't know anything about him."

"It might help your cause to know that Doctor Fell and Doctor Lecter are the same person."

Pazzi swallowed hard. He was sweating confusion. "I know where Clarice Starling is."

"You get three million for them separately, six million for them both. Fax me Starling's address and signature. I can have my men take care of the rest."

"I don't need any help."

"My men are professionals."

"So am I." Pazzi snapped.

"I need the address and signature to make sure you aren't lying to me, because if you are, that wouldn't be any _fun_ at all." Verger was getting mushy. "If you're going to get Starling, rest assured that Lecter won't be far behind. I'd be careful, and I'm as professional as it gets."

The line went dead. 


	24. Chapter 24

The luxury and luck of the evening hours in Florence was straightforward. If you liked to smoke, you could find cigarettes on the corner and smoke on your terrace, drinking in the lights of the city. If you liked to walk, the streets twisted and turned in such a way that you couldn't avoid running into good company. If you liked fun, there was dancing in the piazzas and the bars were wide open. If you liked to make love, you could slip down into the velvet dark, although fucking was done best in brightly lit and possibly exposed spaces. And if you liked faith, the Duomo towered above Florence, the jewel of the Renaissance.

Rinaldo Pazzi could finally afford all the things he liked, but it was something of a tragedy that he didn't have enough time to enjoy them. People without faith chose to believe in strange things. For Pazzi, his belief in money was so strong that he hounded after it eternally. He was quick to take offence and blow minor hurt feelings or misunderstandings out of proportion, for which he would always demand some sort of payment. His wife Allegra deserved finery and attention for putting up with Pazzi, and he knew it. There were days when she walked to his room and heard nothing. On those days she crept up to his bed and stood long enough to discern his breathing, his eyes twitching in troubled sleep. Other times, they decided on a film to watch together and she sat in the chair next to him. Mostly he wanted to be left alone, shut away in his room to stew in disgrace and paperwork.

It was eight o'clock and it felt like two in the morning. Pazzi opened the window, leaning far out with a cigarette between his teeth. His cherrywood desk was covered with books, folios, and magazines. Newspaper clippings littered the space between the ashtray and the computer keyboard. The mafia didn't really _exist_ in this part of Italy, but it didn't really _have_ to; Naples, Calabria, and Sicily birthed clans that settled as far north as Tuscany. Violence and scheming were their trade. The woefully underprepared and underfunded Questura was helpless against the the drug pushers who infiltrated innocuous vegetable and fish markets, and the money launderers that kept the money pumping in like arteries pumped blood to the heart.

Pazzi gained no glory from such petty arrests. He'd lost the Buffalo Bill case months ago and heard nothing from Jack Crawford lately. His only option, then, was to turn to the FBI's Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. It was the darling pilot project of one Clint Pearsall. Currently, Pazzi's computer was idling on the homepage. The screen burned his eyes. Many of the criminals coincided with the FBI's Most Wanted list. He scrolled through it now, routinely, and suddenly primal fear gripped him. There, at the center of the page, was a face he'd seen recently, the face of Sarah N. Clericgilt. Except it wasn't, it was too ridiculous, it was really the face of Clarice Starling, wanted for several murders, still at large. And _armed._

With shaking hands, he tore through the papers on the desk until he found the firearm application. Starling's address was printed neatly at the bottom. Within half an hour, he lurked outside her apartment, smoking in the dark. A light was on. The street was quiet. He paced. A calico cat materialized from the shadows. It lapped at the saucer of milk on the front step, then upon seeing Pazzi, bolted over to rub against his legs. He swatted it away and lit another cigarette. He couldn't arrest Starling without a warrant. For all of his life, the distance between his desires and reality was always like this: in view but just out of reach.

Pazzi stalked Starling over the next few days. She frequented perfume and flower shoppes, delis and cafes, carrying herself with an effortless air of disdain. For hours on end, Pazzi would study her from a bench or a street corner or trail several steps behind. She almost noticed him once, when he tailed her for several blocks, through a crowded piazza, and then paused at a newspaper stand. At night he invented excuses for Allegra so that he could linger outside Starling's apartment and smoke. He didn't care if Allegra thought he was cheating, although he did placate her with opera tickets.

Pazzi might have reported his suspicions to the Questura. Or he might have researched Starling on the internet. It yielded one interesting result that was not a matter of her public record: a posting from a concerned citizen asking for information about Starling, and interestingly, a local Baltimore psychiatrist, Hannibal Lecter.

Pazzi scrawled the telephone number down, along with the name of the contact-Cordell-and dashed out of his house on the pretext that he'd forgotten some urgent files at the Questura. He ducked behind some pillars and claimed a payphone. It took several rings for a cool, clipped voice to answer.

"State your name and business."

"My name is Rinaldo Pazzi. I work for the Questura Di Firenze and I have information about Clarice Starling."

"What kind of information?"

"I know where she is." Pazzi said quietly, hugging the receiver. "She's right here, in Florence."

A pause. "Do you have proof?"

"Yes! Yes I do. I have her signature and address."

"Please hold."

Excruciating minutes passed.

"Pazzi." The new voice sounded wet, like some unspeakable creature was stirring awake from a long forgotten cavern. "You've got good news for me."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Mason Verger. I want Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter alive and unharmed. Well, mostly unharmed."

"Lecter? I don't know anything about him."

"It might help your cause to know that Doctor Fell and Doctor Lecter are the same person."

Pazzi swallowed hard. He was sweating confusion. "I know where Clarice Starling is."

"You get three million for them separately, six million for them both. Fax me Starling's address and signature. I can have my men take care of the rest."

"I don't need any help."

"My men are professionals."

"So am I." Pazzi snapped.

"I need the address and signature to make sure you aren't lying to me, because if you are, that wouldn't be any _fun_ at all." Verger was getting mushy. "If you're going to get Starling, rest assured that Lecter won't be far behind. I'd be careful, and I'm as professional as it gets."

The line went dead.


	25. Chapter 25

Hannibal Lecter swept through the Aeroporto di Firenze-Peretola. He was dressed in a well-cut navy suit with a white, open collar shirt. The bustle and incessant noise of the crowd was drowned out by the singular purpose in his mind: Clarice. During the torturous flight, he'd retreated into his memory palace. His body demanded obsessive motion now.

Florence welcomed him like a gift, and Hannibal graciously accepted its alluring invitation. Every summer spent immersed in its beauty was unique; the familiar skyline only encouraged him to pursue deeper insights. The city was nestled in a valley surrounded by low hills on one side and mountains in the distance on the other side, just as it always was. With summer almost upon it, a large variety of trees and flowers bloomed throughout the streets. The monuments, churches, museums, statues, and bridges shifted colours with the changing sky, from blue to yellow, to orange, to pink, and then to a light purple in the evening. Being in Florence again brought to mind the old proverb, c _hi si_ _volta, e chi si gira, sempre a casa va finire_ _:_ no matter where you go or turn, you will always end up at home.

Dizzying anticipation gripped Hannibal when he entered his apartment. Clarice's apartment, he amended. Their apartment, his hopeful heart supplied. It was silent and dim. Fresh flowers were in the vase, he noted, and a red coat suspended from the rack by the door. He was tempted to call out for Clarice. She had summoned him, after all. But what if she'd experienced a change of heart before his arrival? What if she'd…left? A cold shudder fueled him to swiftly examine the apartment.

Hannibal was not a man accustomed to doubt. Few things surprised him because he tried to leave nothing to chance. And yet, Clarice was not in the living room. Or the kitchen. The loggia was empty, disappointingly empty; he had imagined her standing there many times, bathed by the ethereal light, her hair loosened by the breeze, her lithe figure framed by Florence's ancient stone, and her head turning to him with deep affection shining in her eyes.

Panic threatened to overtake him when he entered the bedroom and Clarice was not there either. For one moment, his vision swam. Primitive anger possessed him. His shudders turned into uncontrollable shakes of shock, forcing him to sink onto the bed. He drew in a sharp breath. Regret pierced him, hollow and intrusive.

Then Hannibal caught the slightest scent of her, _there_ , on the pillow. He stretched out to bury his nose in it. Perfume. Light, floral, yet intoxicating. And the viscous scent of…gun oil? His sleek head rose and he noticed the pistol on the bedside table. He shot to his feet instantly, every muscle tense, alert, prepared. Retracing his steps while his mind churned out possibilities, each one more horrifying than the last. Something was wrong. She hadn't greeted him at the door. Something was wrong! There was someone else. Here. She'd needed a gun to feel safe. A gun! Where was she? What happened? Something had happened. If she'd been harmed, if anything at all had happened to her, _anything_ , he would make the streets of Florence run red-

The floral scent dipped sharply into cleanliness, mixed detergent and soap, when Hannibal entered the laundry room. There, wearing a white silk shift and curled against the humming washing machine, was Clarice Starling. His heart tripped. Shots of warmth brought an amused, tender smile. Easing aside the pile of clothing, Hannibal scooped Clarice into his arms. She nuzzled against his shoulder. He carried her back to the bedroom and tucked the covers around her. The only points of light throughout the night were his watchful eyes shining in the dark. He rose silently with the dawn and went out, locking the door firmly.

Florence was especially inspiring in the morning because of how it glowed-tile roofs smoky pink, slanting tin roofs a dull silver. Hannibal returned in time to enjoy coffee and prepare a breakfast of crepes. He was humming along to Strauss in his head when he heard Clarice running down the hall. She answered his beaming smile with her own and kissed him on the cheek without preamble.

"A very good morning to you too, Clarice."

She laughed. "When did you arrive?"

"Late last night."

"I wanted to stay awake, honest."

"Mmm. But you were understandably worn out." He indicated the paper figures lined up on the counter. "I see you've folded several delightful Origami chicken."

"They're supposed to be cranes."

After breakfast, they strolled through Florence arm in arm. Hannibal expected to be her guide, demonstrating not only his capability for resourcefulness but also his capacity for sentimentality. Florence was where he had become a man. His heart was full and everywhere, from the banks of the Arno river to the very top of the Duomo and every secret alley in between.

But it was Clarice that took him by the hand and guided him, as though he'd never set foot in the city. She chatted excitedly about her clothing purchases, her enchantment with the history of almost every building, weaving between facades and traffic to show him a view of the sprawling gardens blossoming behind a villa. Hannibal sensed her joy. And yet, her hand frequently came to rest on the pistol she kept holstered beneath her jacket. When he inquired about it, her mood darkened.

"Y'know I've been getting the feeling that someone's following me." She scowled. "I keep a pistol near 'cos I swear there is."

"I wasn't aware you had secret admirers, Clarice."

"I'm serious. I might have seen his face. He had a goatee, I reckon."

"So not as handsome as me."

"Nope. Definitely not."

Evening caught up with them. Clarice's mood improved considerably when he suggested they create a meal together, and afterwards, attend an opera at the Teatro della Pergola. It was spontaneous and romantic to her, surely, but carefully considered and planned by him. Even the meal, plain spaghetti and tomato sauce, was already prepared for. Hannibal had obtained the basil, bay leaves, and oregano that morning. Clarice diced the tomatoes and garlic while he chopped sausage and mixed everything together in the saucepan. When he finally poured the thick sauce onto the spaghetti, the heady aroma made Clarice hum in appreciation. They were silent during the meal and while washing the dishes, exchanging nothing but light touches.

Excitement buzzed the air as people draped in finery filled the tiers of box seats. The Teatro della Pergola was located in the heart of Florence. Its humble, pastel colour façade was covered with vines and revealed nothing of the stunning architecture within. Marble pillars and arches, golden chandeliers, and exquisitely detailed murals beguiled all who entered.

Hannibal kept his hand on Clarice's both for her reassurance and to satisfy his need for a more primitive, territorial display of affection. He matched her breathtaking evening dress with a refined suit of wide spaced white chalk stripe on light blue, interesting for its visible contrast pick stitching and flapped chest pocket.

They stood out amongst the opulent crowd of similarity dressed ladies and gentlemen, all chatting amicably about the performance. One couple in particular seemed to distract Clarice into constantly glancing over her shoulder. She pointed out a man with his silver-streaked goatee, stern and uncomfortable beside the woman clutching his arm.

"He's the one who's been following me," Clarice hissed.

Hannibal walked over and offered contrite introductions. The man winced in response and presented himself as Inspector Rinaldo Pazzi. The woman was his wife, Allegra. Hannibal's mouth twitched into a smile as Clarice looked tempted to kick him, hard.

"I'm wondering, Inspector, are you a genuine Pazzi of the Pazzi?"

"Ah, yes."

"Your ancestor Francesco was hanged from the windows of the Palazzo de Vecchi five hundred years ago for conspiracy to murder, was he not?"

"I believe so."

"By all accounts, he was led astray by thirty pieces of silver from the Papal banker. Fascinating." Hannibal turned to Clarice. He admired her ability to paste a cordial smile on her face in any circumstance. "'The Spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak,' is it not, my dear?"

"I hope that means we're going to get something to eat."

"Yes, let's." Allegra said.

She moved away with Clarice. Hannibal smirked and addressed Pazzi.

"What is the purpose of manners, Inspector?"

"Courtesy." His brow furrowed.

Hannibal nodded. "Wouldn't you agree that following a young, unaccompanied woman to and from her apartment without her consent is rather rude?"

"Yes." Pazzi stammered.

"Then I do hope you keep your manners in mind, Inspector." Hannibal gestured to the musicians around them. "Every life is a piece of music. Like music we are finite events, unique arrangements. Sometimes harmonious. Sometimes dissonant." He squeezed Pazzi's shoulder. "Sometimes not worth hearing again."

When two lives entwined, their music had the power to transform. It was a distillation of the soul. A collection of private melodies and refrains, an abstract expression of hopes, dreams, and desires. And it could only be heard by those two lives. Other ears did not have the patience to listen. Hannibal was learning to listen to Clarice just as any musician listened to the nuances of their instrument; changes in tuning and frequency of play were vital to producing the desired music. Clarice was currently in discord. The simmering rage he'd sensed at the opera rose to prominence as soon as they entered the apartment. 

"I can't believe you talked to Pazzi."

"Why not?" Hannibal countered. "I have no reason to be discourteous."

Clarice glowered at him. "I've missed you and the first thing you do when you get here is deliver me right to a creep."

"Clarice." Hannibal placed a hand on her shoulder. "I wouldn't let any harm come to you."

"I can handle myself just fine."

"I have no doubt of that. Violence is always at your disposal."

She shrugged off his warm touch. The singe of rejection was unexpected. Hannibal listened to her heaving breaths, observed the high colour in her cheeks, and read that the moment dictated for his control and precision to balance out her anger. It was wasted when it could be better redirected towards passion.

"Calm yourself, Clarice. Now."

"Don't you _dare_ tell me to calm down!"

Hannibal pressed closer. He looked into Clarice's wild, coruscating eyes. Then he pushed her against the wall, pinned her hip with one hand, and with the other, grabbed her by the hair at the nape of her neck. He tilted her head back, leaning in to make his intent perfectly clear.

"There are means of influence other than violence." 

The words murmured against her mouth made Clarice shiver. She considered the man before her, felt her heartbeat quicken, and raised her chin. Hannibal kissed her. Gently at first, lips slightly parted. He pulled back a millimeter or two, allowing her hands and hips to adjust.

He captured Clarice's lower lip between his teeth and savoured her soft gasp. He brought his hands to her face, held it, ran his fingers through her hair. She responded rapaciously, grinding her hips forward and gripping his shoulders in between shallow breaths. Hannibal let his ardour rise, keeping his thumbs on her temples, and his fingers wrapped behind her head. Gently, he traced the lines of her jaw, delirious for her fevered sweetness.

Then one hand snaked around Clarice's waist, the other slowly stroked her hip and thigh. Her hands travelled up and she began to caress her breasts over her evening dress and to lightly pinch her nipples. Hannibal's hands sank into her. With a low growl, he slipped them under the hem and dragged his wicked touch along the hot inside of her thighs. His fingers probed her, and she moaned. His lips found her neck. She tilted her head to bare more of her skin and widened her stance. This was the motion that urged him to be closer still, so he took his place before her and looked at her long beautiful throat. Inhaled deeply. Kissed her again. But it was colder now. The difference was harsh and startling. She turned the kiss to safety, and Hannibal resented its indecisive taste as he pulled away.

"Thank you for the lovely evening, Doctor."

Clarice fled from her own breathless declaration, shutting the bathroom door and emerging only when she heard his footsteps fade. Confusion ripped through her. _Way to go, Starling. You got him all wound up for nothing._ Clarice clutched the sink, splashed water on her face, concentrated on the floor's cool tiles, anything to distract her from the throbbing, demanding pulse between her thighs and the roar of her blood. The doubts she thought she'd murdered along with Jack Crawford had returned to question Hannibal and to lash out at him.

She obeyed her rush of shame and went to find him again. He wasn't in the apartment. With dread pooling in her gut, Clarice curled into bed. Sometime later, in the space between waking life and dreams, she heard him come into the bedroom. He laid down and shifted the covers more snuggly around her body. Then he began to hum. Clarice closed her eyes. She woke with the lingering flavour of his lips. He wasn't in the bed. Regret uncoiled in her stomach; restraint had betrayed her. She was glad and sorry, sorry and glad.

She went downstairs and saw him in the kitchen, his back to her, wearing a grey wool coat. Oh God he was leaving, she'd pushed him away and he was leaving. She spoke his name with a crack in her voice.

"Hannibal."

He turned. "Clarice, good morning. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes. I did. You?"

"Although sleep was not original my intention, I did." He gathered eight oranges and hefted a knife. "Why did you stop last night, Clarice?"

"I'm sorry."

"I want your reason, not your apology."

"I was...uncomfortable."

"Then I am sorry."

"Don't be," said Clarice firmly. "Fear was my reason. I hope I haven't hurt you. If I have, I didn't mean to."

He peeled the oranges and squeezed them into two glasses, wringing out every last drop of juice. Clarice accepted her drink humbly.

"This isn't about me. This is about you." Hannibal said simply. "You should feel confidence-always. Unflinching comfort, safety, and trust. If you say no, Clarice, it means no." His voice was clear. "I'll never try to change your mind. I'll never try to say the way you feel is wrong. I will only ever ask you to know why you feel something. Know why you won't do something. Know why you're absolutely dead set against something, so that you're refusing for the right reasons, _your_ reasons. And I can see you're learning to trust your reasons. I hope you always find the courage to act on them."

"That would be easier if I wasn't so goddamn worried about what other people think."

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. "Then you may lack perspective. I don't want you to fear what they think. Never have concerns about what others might do or say. Break loose from the shackles of your past and the confines of what you think is proper, my dear." His arms encircled her. "Here, with me, you should never feel judged. Never feel embarrassed. Never feel like there is a wrong or right answer. Always feel free to speak your mind. You can't offend me or scare me off." He pressed his lips to the top of her head. "You wanted me, and I came. I am here for you, Clarice."

"Thank you. I...I just wonder sometimes if it's too good to be true, y'know?"

"I know. Though I encourage you to keep an open mind. See things for what they are, not what they appear to be. Which means, Clarice, that you must also learn how to temper your fear, calm your mind, and relax before you make emotional decisions. Only after you do this can you really push your boundaries."

"Even when I'm afraid?"

"Especially then. Commit to never responding out of fear."

They downed the rest of the orange juice and agreed to go out for breakfast. Clarice insisted on bringing the Beretta.

"Still not feeling safe, Clarice?"

"It's not my own safety I'm worried about."

Florence seemed to be on edge that morning. People went to work and opened their windows and hung their laundry and shouted across the street; Clarice realized she'd quietly settled into the rhythm of the city only when she stepped out of time. Hannibal was unreadable, although he remained a steady presence at her side. They crossed one of Florence's most important landmarks, the Ponte Vecchio. When the wind died down, the Arno was so still that reflections of the buildings were visible on it. After a big rain, the water flowed swiftly and cascaded. Eventually, it trickled to the edge of a fish market.

Hannibal had expressed interest for a fresh catch. He conversed with a vendor, raising his voice over the din of prices and swears. Boats nudged against the wooden docks beyond the stalls, splitting the glassy surface of the Arno. Fishermen dragged half-empty nets past Clarice as she surveyed her surroundings. Everything reeked. It wasn't really unpleasant, and she didn't really mind the chaos, but damn it, something was off. The back of her mind prickled; maybe it was the noise, after all.

She glanced at Hannibal. He'd moved to another vendor, a few stalls farther away. The noise increased. Why was it so noisy? Clarice scanned the crowd again; lots of people this morning. All with a taste for fish, apparently. Slipping between two stalls, Clarice smoothly unholstered the Beretta. She kept it low, aware of every movement, her thumb brushing against the trigger guard. If she was still wired from last night, if this was just paranoia, then no one would notice and panic. But all these people, a bunch of men actually, congregating and pacing up and down, their eyes shifting to the perimeter of the market, constantly flicking with malice, like they were all part of a pack, planning an ambush-

Clarice made the connection just as her raw instinct kicked in. She shouted a warning, barely catching sight of Hannibal ducking behind a stall as a car careened into view. The screech of tires was followed by a barrage of bullets. Screams ripped the air. Glass burst and wooden splinters pelted skin. The car reversed and came again, spouting wave after wave of gunfire. Bodies fell. The smell of smoke and blood hung heavy.

Clarice wanted to go down on her hands and knees and crawl to Hannibal, make sure he was safe, she couldn't see him, couldn't even _feel_ him past the shock and fear clogging like ice in her veins and she dragged in a breath, crouched, set her shoulder against the stall, peered around a corner and saw guys with pistols firing at anything, at anyone, fishermen twitching in pools of water and olive oil and their own blood, screaming, and the screaming, oh God the screaming, it made Clarice clench her teeth, she saw someone take aim and she squeezed, sent a bullet right through his throat, he crumpled to the ground, and she _moved._

Weaving between fish and guts and semi-rotting vegetables, squinting against the pretty morning sunlight, ducking and popping out behind stalls, Clarice fired, missed, fired, fired, missed, swore under her laboured breath, and wished acutely for Kevlar instead of the jacket she was wearing. She didn't know if this was some undercover police operation gone wrong, some raid or even clan warfare, and she didn't care when the sound of someone shouting in Italian came right above her and she looked up and with the sun flaring behind his head, she squeezed, shooting a hole through his forehead that leaked brain onto the already wet ground.

Before his knees hit the ground, Clarice was already in motion, desperate to get to Hannibal. She dodged a bullet, returned clumsy fire that only clipped the shoulder, and paused in the shadow of a stack of crates. The car was making another pass; it'd done a good job of mowing down most of the people in the market, but whoever was spitting out bullets from the back clearly wasn't short on ammo. Clarice aimed at the driver, making the best call she could past the tinted windows, and missed. The car seemed to take offence, flustering into a u-turn that aligned right with Clarice's aim as it bore down on her. Her shot went through the windshield and into the driver.

The car slammed to a halt against a building after taking out several market stalls along the way. Clarice advanced on its smoking hull, pistol raised, her sweaty hands maintaining a grip so tight her knuckles cracked. She couldn't miss at this distance. The sound of a baby's cries made Clarice halt. Her heart flooded with such pity that she fought to keep her vision clear.

The car door opened slowly. A shower of glass fell as a woman stepped out. She was tall and her elegant clothes were bloodied. In one hand she clutched the baby, and in the other, if Clarice knew her guns, she clutched a MAC 10. She raised the machine pistol.

"No! Stop!" Clarice yelled. She scrambled for Italian, repeated the words as steadily as she could.

The baby kept crying. The woman regarded Clarice seemingly in amusement while her aim never wavered. There was a hard, cold glint in her eyes. Then Clarice realized the woman wasn't aiming at her, she was aiming at someone over her shoulder and that someone was the only one that mattered to Clarice, and without another thought, she squeezed the trigger and shot the woman carrying her child in the head.

Clarice could feel the heat of the pistol against her cheek as she fired. The Beretta was numb in her hands. She put it away and rushed to the screaming baby. Hannibal shadowed her as she grabbed a spluttering hose and showered the blood covered baby. She soothed while Hannibal took his coat off and carefully swaddled it. He stood at Clarice's shoulder and rubbed her back continuously, watched her hold the baby close to her chest and he murmured:

"You are a warrior, Clarice. The enemy is dead, the baby safe. You are a warrior."

They returned to the apartment in a daze and stayed inside, locked in a kind of surreal stupor, drifting through the rooms as if they couldn't quite believe they still breathed. They held each other fiercely. Clarice didn't want to let go. Hannibal seemed satisfied to worship her with awestruck kisses. The Beretta rested on the living room table, cleaned and ominous.

Grains of burnt powder from Clarice's pistol marked her cheekbone with a black spot. Hannibal traced it delicately. "Do you know what the French call a beauty spot, a mouche like that, high on the cheek? Do you know what it stands for?"

Clarice shook her head.

"They call that one 'courage,'" Hannibal said. "You can wear that one. I'd keep it if I were you."

When the evening newspaper landed at their front door, Hannibal took a disproportionate amount of glee in recounting its contents to Clarice.

"Apparently the woman you killed was Evelda Drumagio, the leader of a drug clan that recently split from the Sicilian mafia."

"Oh, fuck."

"And all the newspapers are raving about a Death Angel. How very flattering. Inspector Pazzi himself is heading the international investigation." Hannibal continued. "What if I made him scream for you, Clarice?"

"I don't want you to do that," she whispered, "I want to do that."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Pazzi won't stop until he's found me."

Hannibal slowly took out his Harpy and pressed it into her hands. "Find him first."


	26. Chapter 26

"If you tell me what I need to know, I won't hang you. D'you understand?"

From the choked gargling which strained past the thick cord around Pazzi's throat, Clarice figured that he took her meaning. She cut him enough slack to reduce the flush in his face and to keep his eyes from bulging too much; he needed to be conscious, after all. The height of the catwalk he was precariously balanced on certainly brought a rush of blood to his brain. Above, the Baptistery's golden octagonal dome depicted Christ and the Angels of Judgement, magnificent and terrifying in their power. Below, the marble interior faded into dark, with just the barest hint of reflected moonlight shimmering on the surface of the font.

Clarice made sure that she had enough length in the cord to maneuver freely without Pazzi being able to throw her off balance. Ensnaring him during an afterhours prayer had been exhilarating; the shock still hadn't faded from his face. Even now, he was beseeching her with wide eyes and desperate noises. She tightened the noose again in warning, then gave him enough room to speak.

"Why were you following me?"

"You are a criminal. I am not," Pazzi rasped.

"An' I used to be FBI. All the more reason for you not to follow me." Clarice gave the cord a tug. "What were you hoping to find out?"

"Your address."

"Why do you care?"

Pazzi made a pathetic sound that might have been a laugh. His body twitched as his tired legs fought for purchase. "I don't."

"Someone else cares, then."

He nodded.

"Who?"

Pazzi stared at Clarice. She wound the cord tighter around her hand and pulled until the veins in his neck stood out, until his face slipped towards blue. When Pazzi could gasp enough air he choked out, "Mason Verger."

Clarice thoughtfully pulled him back from the edge of the catwalk. She unwound the noose, keeping a careful eye on Pazzi's hands as they clenched against the cord cutting into his wrists. His face was confused as Clarice turned him 'round and she thought that it added a charming dimension of amusement to his entire predicament. She smiled.

"I 'preciate you spilling your guts."

With a casual, almost nonchalant flick of her wrist, Clarice freed the Harpy. Her hand darted out so fast that Pazzi's howl of pain was a little delayed. The steel lodged firmly in his stomach. Blood slithered down in thin trails. Clarice dragged the Harpy across, sawing a bit, letting him feel the teeth of the blade. She cut deeper. The pressure of her hand made him scream. His voice echoed all the way up to the golden dome.

Slowly and without breaking eye contact, Clarice slipped her fingers inside the wound and drew out Pazzi's intestines. They were so slick she almost dropped them. She wondered if they really were the length of a football field; she stopped pulling them out when her hand became too soaked to grip them. By then Pazzi had drained of almost all colour and his eyes were rolling back in his head. She removed the Harpy with a savage slice, stepped back as the blood sprayed, pumping so ferociously, and looked on as Pazzi fell from the catwalk, as he fell from grace.

Clarice glanced at his broken body when she passed him in order to reach the font near the entrance. The moonlight spilling from above seemed to turn his blood black. Wearily, Clarice dipped her hands in the holy water and rubbed them together until all the blood washed away. She set off at a brisk pace to hail a taxi, kept her head down, focused on her breathing and broke out into a run when she reached the familiar street. Outside the apartment, Caesar was prowling and mewling. Then he padded inside, and that surprised Clarice so much she realized it was because the door was bashed open.

"Hannibal?"

The coat rack in the hall was knocked over. Shoes were scattered. The right wall had a dent.

"Hannibal!"

In the living room, the table was overturned. The leather sofa had a long tear in it. Clarice saw that the Beretta was lying across the room, by the newspaper. She picked the pistol up and barely swallowed past the lump in her throat. The details of Hannibal Lecter she'd come to cherish were all over the place, rudely rearranged where they didn't belong-but they were there. Hannibal Lecter was not.

Clarice stood in the middle of the room, feeling small, and letting the white hot intensity of her emotions overtake her. She understood all at once that her time in Florence was over. Her time with Hannibal Lecter was all that remained.


	27. Chapter 27

The night was clear under a quarter moon. Patches of starry sky were visible where the overgrowth broke. The primeval forest on Muskrat Farm yielded easily to barbed wire and wooden fences, but anything that was made by human hands was inevitably made to be broken.

Clarice got out of the rented low rider Impala convertible. She brought her Beretta and her hope that Mason Verger liked to play with his food before he ate it. Animal instinct honed her perception in the dark, guiding the way she moved along the path. She tried the edge of the gravel and found it loose and uneven. Quieter to walk in a packed wheel track in the gravel, looking ahead to judge how the road lay with her peripheral vision, her head slightly turned to the side. It was like wading in soft darkness, she could hear her feet crunch the gravel but she couldn't see the ground. Her next step was slower, she stopped and she could hear herself breathing.

Suddenly, Clarice went blind from the car headlights that came out of nowhere and fried her eyes. When she regained her vision, she saw Ardelia Mapp pointing a SIG SAUER at her.

"FBI! Hands up!"

"So that's how that feels. Huh." Clarice gripped her pistol tighter.

"Drop your weapon."

"Ardelia-"

"Drop the fucking gun, Clarice!"

She let it fall at her feet. "What are you doing out here?"

"Following a lead, thanks to Customs and Border Protection."

"Are you gonna cross a line now?" Clarice tilted her head.

"If you go along quietly, I won't have to." Ardelia spoke into the walkie-talkie, reported the situation, requested backup. "Fifteen minutes, Clarice."

"You don't understand." Clarice watched Ardelia fumble to unhook the handcuffs from her belt and keep her gun steady.

"I understand fine. You murdered Crawford and Krendler and God knows how many other people. You're not going to murder anyone else."

"If you don't get out of my way, Ardelia, I'll kill you too."

This made her freeze.

"I need to get to that barn," Clarice said, "because Mason Verger's got Doctor Lecter. Let me go."

"I can't!"

Clarice thought about how much it cost her to care. "Then come with me. I could use your help. Please."

Ardelia's pistol wavered.

"When Doctor Lecter is safe, you can go ahead an' arrest me." She bent down to pick up the Beretta, slowly brought it to her side, and nodded to Ardelia. "I'll go first. You'd better have my back."

Clarice found herself in the position she swore she'd never been in again: approaching the menace of a looming barn. Ardelia kept pace behind her, swearing under her breath. They crossed forty yards of clear ground and reached the open end of the barn with the great doors flung wide. They flanked both sides and peered in.

There was a barrier across the end of the barn with a gate in it, and an ornate mirror suspended above the gate, which reflected the light of the barn in a bright patch on the ground. Standing in the clear area of the barn was a stocky, heavily tattooed man with a boom box. He covered one ear with his hand as a series of howls and sobs came from the machine.

Out came the wild swine with their savage faces, startling in their speed, long-legged and deep-chested, shaggy, spiky grey bristles. Carlo dashed back through the gate and closed it when they were still thirty yards from him. They stopped in a semicircle waiting, their great curved tusks holding their lips in a permanent snarl. Like linemen anticipating the snap of the ball, they surged forward, stopped, jostled, grunting, clicking their teeth. They watched the doorway, jostling and rushing forward, then backing, always facing the barrier across the open end of the barn.

Then came the screams.

With a panicked glance at Ardelia, Clarice rushed inside the barn. The two women followed the narrow, hay-strewn path that snaked between the feed and water troughs. Between the slats in the wood, Clarice glimpsed half a dozen figures shuffling around an open space.

Clarice and Ardelia came up behind them. All were facing the other way, facing the pigs. Clarice passed the door, moved out into the center of the barn. She saw Hannibal Lecter spread out on a wooden cross, with another empty one lashed behind him, facing the opposite direction. He was wearing filthy trousers. His feet were bare. He was bleeding.

"Now, don't let him bleed out," Cordell was saying from behind Mason Verger. They were observing the proceedings from a wooden ledge. "Be ready when I tell you to tighten the tourniquets."

"Anything to say, Doctor Lecter?" came Mason's wispy voice.

Ardelia fired first, dropping Carlo. The boom came and then Clarice's voice followed: "Hands up and freeze!"

She could see one gun, on the hip of a white-haired man. A .22 Winchester Western. A holster with a thumb break. Put the men on the ground first. The man was dead before he knew it. Clarice pivoted and took aim at Cordell, who ducked behind a flimsy wooden wall. Ardelia moved to cover her, and they turned, fired, reloaded, fired in synchrony. Bullets ricocheted.

Carlo and Matteo decided to rush Clarice and Ardelia; both were neatly dispatched with shots to the chest and head, respectively. A flash of movement to her left and Ardelia fired. She pressed against Clarice's shoulder, nudging her towards Hannibal Lecter. He looked from Ardelia to Clarice and back again. "Just like old times, isn't it?"

"Shut up!" was their unanimous reply.

Gunfire erupted close to Clarice's feet. She sucked in breath and squeezed the trigger. Sweeping the barn and seeing only bodies, Ardelia tossed Clarice her boot knife. She rushed to Hannibal.

"Good thing I'm here to save you," she said breathlessly.

"And here I always thought I was saving you."

"We can talk about this later!"

"Hurry!" Ardelia yelled. The impatient squealing of the pigs grew louder.

Hannibal watched Clarice saw at his restraints. Mason was swearing and only one hand was free. "This will go faster if you give me the knife."

Clarice covered him. Ardelia was fixated on the wooden barrier, her eyes wide. The wood groaned, shuddered. Snouts and tusks bashed against it, again and again. The pigs smelled blood and were swept into frenzy.

A crack of gunfire. Hannibal cried out. He jerked himself free of the cross and clutched his right shoulder. Clarice aimed. The shooter-Cordell- fired again blindly. When he peeked from behind the thin wooden wall, Clarice shot him and clipped his hand. Howling, he careened into sight, and she shot him again in the torso, then again in the back as he twisted. He stumbled forward, landing heavily on Mason Verger's wheelchair. The added weight pitched them both forward and down into the pen below.

"Stay still!"

Clarice, Ardelia, and Hannibal huddled together in the patch of light reflected by the mirror as the squealing reached a fever pitch and the wooden barrier burst. The pigs surged forward, their jaws foaming, their teeth snapping. They swept past the three motionless figures by the cross; the yelling, thrashing figure saturated in blood was much more appealing. The pigs gorged on Mason Verger, oblivious to Clarice, Ardelia, and Hannibal rushing out of the barn.

They caught their breath at the Mustang. Clarice chucked her Beretta in the back seat. Ardelia couldn't seem to stop her knees from shaking. Hannibal was perched on the hood, wincing in pain. Clarice got the Frist Aid kit out of the Mustang's trunk and gently pried Hannibal's hands away from the wound. He was shot in the shoulder at an oblique angle; the bullet had grazed the deltoid muscle.

The combined forces of heat from the burning charge and the friction of the bore on the bullet's shank came close to sterilizing it, but Clarice knew she had to clean the wound immediately if Hannibal wanted to keep his arm. His silence throughout the process alarmed her. She hastily applied a bandage directly to the wound and maintained pressure to minimize bleeding. There would be lots of acute pain after about half an hour, although there was no telling what could happen in that time.

Ardelia had regained some of her purpose and a firm grip on her gun. She had her handcuffs out, too.

"Turn around, Clarice. Thumbs out."

She obeyed. Her mind was entirely serene, like the moment just before a gale wind picked up. The moonlight poured down on them between the forest leaves. Clarice waited until Ardelia had to get close enough to cuff her.

"Hey Ardeila," she said, "y'ever hear about the story of the Scorpion and the Frog?"

"What?"

Clarice pitched back, slamming her elbow into Ardelia's nose and hearing a satisfying crack. She whirled around and wrenched the SIG SAUER from her hands. Ardelia stumbled back, blood pouring between her fingers as she clutched her nose.

"Remind me again," Clarice panted, "which leg was shot?"

"The right one!"

Clarice aimed at Ardelia's left leg and fired. She leaned down to pat her shoulder. "Don't worry, back up will be here soon."

She tossed the SIG SAUER in along with the Beretta. Hannibal didn't even have time to buckle his seat belt before the Mustang sped forward in a burst of gravel. When they pulled onto the main road, Clarice kept glancing in the rear view mirror.

"Where am I goingl?"

He gave this some thought. "Chesapeake Bay."

The Chesapeake Bay entered from the Atlantic Ocean up in the eastern shore of Virginia and eventually ended near the Susquehanna River up in northern Maryland. Hannibal gave the directions to his house on the shore, urging Clarice to focus on her driving rather than inquire about his condition every few seconds.

She turned the radio on. The shiny, cheery tune of Take On Me filled the car.

"What is this atrocious noise?"

"It's called music."

Hannibal gave her a black look. He switched radio stations until he found a classical piece.

"And what is this sappy nonsense?" asked Clarice.

"Antonio Vivaldi's Sonata For Two."

She listened, deciding that it was just the right kind of soothing. Hannibal tried to mask his pain. He broke a sweat. Clarice opened the windows. In the fresh smelling dark, she knew in some primal way that they were near the sea. When they reach the house it looked otherworldly, a strange and beautiful silhouette balanced on a cliff. They stumbled inside.

Clarice flicked the lights on and noticed only surfaces. A table. A couch. She lowered Hannibal onto it. His eyes were glazed and he spoke slowly, but he nonetheless maintained command on the situation.

"In the bathroom, you'll find more gauze sand painkillers. Oh, and find a needle and thread."

She dumped the stuff into his lap and frantically worked to cut the gauze into strips with a small knife she'd taken from the kitchen. She examined his wound after peeling the bloody bandages away and moved to stitch it.

"Wait."

Hannibal sat up with a small gasp. "The gun fires a bullet, scattering particulate matter, and the heat of it is enough to scorch the skin." He gestured to the black spot on Clarice's cheek, then to the skin around his wound. "The same particulate matter that causes the black external stippling would also be blown deep into a bullet wound, infecting it."

"Oh."

Hannibal took the knife. Gave her hand a squeeze. Smiled. Went into the bathroom, and locked the door. She was outside in an instant, yelling. He shut her out an examined his damage. The bullet had seared and torn the flesh along the top and outside of his shoulder joint, which was surrounded by tender tissue. It was freshly glistening and stubbornly attached to loose pieces of skin. If the wound was to be stitched properly, he had to trim the fat. He bit down the vanity that flared within him at the thought of removing a piece of his own flesh.

Then he grasped the knife firmly and carved a hymn for the faithful, a communion for the starved. 


	28. Chapter 28

Buenos Aires, Argentina, was a city of wonders. It longed for the old world and the new, seducing both with its electrifying, irresistible sensations. The streets were decidedly European in their planning and execution; cobblestones and concrete, pastel coloured exteriors and dignified architecture. But the vivid smells and colours that seemed to become a permanent part of every identity were unique to the throbbing sensation of being alive, which only belonged to a place where passionate music played nonstop and the tango pulsed with an all-consuming fever.

The city buzzed with a contagious, creative energy and a brash self-confidence. At its heart was the Plaza de Mayo, and it also boasted the Palacio Barnolo, a towering edifice inspired by Dante's Inferno. Gargoyles adorned its walls and they solemnly observed life hurtle by. Many districts, from shopping to art, offered opulence and quaintness in equal measure. They were all connected by roaring concrete thoroughfares that smashed routes wherever routes were needed. Buenos Aires straddled the lascivious and the well-mannered without prejudice and with generous charm.

Near the magnificent Teatro Colòn was a long, quiet street filled with colonial houses and old trees. It might have been unremarkable to everyone else, but it had the distinct unacknowledged privilege of being the address of Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling. They owned the mansion nestled comfortably midway down the street. It was not a mansion in the sprawling American sense. It had two stories. The façade was white, with two golden numbers. The property was shy of boasting, but it was enough for a well-tended garden in the front and a swimming pool in the back.

Inside it was always bright thanks to the large windows that eagerly welcomed light. The furniture was sparse. All who were invited to the couple's dinner parties noted their impeccable taste. In literature, in culture, in paintings, in company, in well, everything. What was perplexing and terrifying and misunderstood by most was the fact that there was a tremendous honest energy in this mansion. An openness and vulnerability that rooted Hannibal and Clarice. Their love kept them sane. Decadence ruled only three places: the kitchen, the music room, and the bedroom.

In the middle of the afternoon, a strong, alluring scent wafted from the bedroom. The servants had been sent home in high spirits. Morale was always high among them, although they adhered to iron discipline; they were forbidden to enter the top floor of the mansion before noon. Or after service of the first course at dinner. They were respected, not worthy.

The worthiest place for worship was the bedroom. It was drenched in the smell of violet and iris which gave a powdery nuance, and created a harmony with the woodsy notes of cedar and sandal, while sensual amber added the final potent accord to the composition. The bedroom was big enough for two armoires, two bedside tables, and two windows. Art adorned the walls. A mirror was unnecessary. The four poster bed dominated the room.

Clarice was flat on her stomach, her arms and legs tied to the four edges of the bed. She was fully exposed and unable to move. The scent was coming from the warm oil Hannibal was using to get her comfortable. She felt his powerful hands travel up her ankles, calf, and the back of her thighs. Clarice sighed in appreciation of the careful and slow attention he paid to every inch of her graceful legs. As his hands moved back down, Hannibal lovingly held her feet, massaging oil deep into the bottom of her heels. Clarice moaned slightly as her body started to relax under his touch.

He must have sensed her becoming suppler for he tightened the ropes. Clarice knew Hannibal wanted her to feel tension. She'd come to crave the sensation of a little strain, a light pain. His hands moved up to her hips and thighs. Now he was over her. She could feel the weight and heat of his body. She felt its raw strength as he firmly massaged her hips, lower back, and her ass.

"Enjoy this, Clarice." Hannibal whispered.

While his hands caressed, he occasionally slid his finger knowingly between her legs. Clarice smirked. She knew he adored the look of her well oiled body under his control. The creamy soft coral skin of her back glistened. Sunlight danced and flickered as Hannibal's hands released tension in her shoulders, arms, and neck. He dragged his fingers along her sides and took particular care to brush her breasts. Her nipples hardened. Clarice needed him to see her arousal, to feel it.

She had so thoroughly offered her mind that it was in perfect harmony with her body: the soft afternoon light, the heady scent of oil and desire, the inconsequential nature of time-everything was attuned to wants and needs. And right now, she wanted to taste Hannibal in her mouth.

He was so close, but she needed him closer. Even as she delighted in being restrained, she wish ardently to reach out. But her only option was to look up, wide eyed, and grin wickedly before parting her glistening lips by licking them. Hannibal grasped his cock and stroked himself once, languidly, then stepped closer. Clarice was shivering from how reverently he'd attended to her, how his hands felt, so as her lips wrapped around his cock she let out a low moan.

Hannibal tilted his hips forward. She took more of him in, sheathed her teeth, and sucked. Her tongue swirled against the head. Panting, she pressed and dragged her mouth along his cock. It was slick and warm, so hard yet soft, and she gloried in his sharp intakes of breath. She quickly checked his expression for approval. A small smile played on his lips, and his fingers briefly stroked her hair. Then Clarice took him deeper in her mouth, steadily moving up and down his length, over and over.

Suddenly, Hannibal stepped away and moved out of sight. All was still. There was silence. Clarice felt another rush of desire. It came 'round the back of her mind, building and building, like fire that crawled across the surface of her brain, sizzling synapses and blurring her vision. The muddled sounds of the street could not distract her from the agonizing ache humming through her body; her entire being was focused on the point that could deliver waves and waves of pleasure. She cried out to be touched. Now.

She begged to be taken. She flowed onto the plush and warm sheets. The contrast of rough ropes around her arms and legs and the softness of the sheets held her at the edge of pleasure. Her stomach twitched. Her thighs tightened, her hips and ass squeezed with longing for some sensation. But Hannibal denied her any sensation. He held her in blistering uncertainty until she strained against the ropes, moaning and crying with desire.

He bent down. His nose touching her nose, his mouth close enough to kiss. Clarice strained even harder now. She needed to feel his approving lips, signalling to her that she was at home here. She was safe here. She was valued here. Hannibal moved in close, narrowly avoiding her lips; instead, she felt his breath travel against her cheek, over her ear and down her neck. He stopped at her shoulder to breathe in her scent. Hannibal could smell her heat, her sweat, her fear, and her anticipation. He chuckled and lightly kissed her throat. Clarice rubbed against him.

"In due time, my dear."

The feeling of soft silk grazed her forehead. Her breath hitched when It fell over her eyes. Darkness welcomed her, heightening all her other senses. Hannibal's fingers running slowly up her back made her nipples tighten. Her stomach clinched underneath his smooth touch. As he reached the small of her back, she lifted her hips. She wanted him to feel her dripping wetness. She needed him to know how much his attentions pleased her.

But Hannibal teased Clarice instead. His fingers ran over her round and tight ass cheeks. He gave them a firm smack. Dipping between them and brushing her inner thigh, he let his hand rest between her legs, enjoying the heat. She felt faint, flushed with an appetite so ravenous, if it wasn't satisfied soon, it would surely collapse and devour itself. She pressed wet against his hand. It floated there. Mocking. Clarice felt his breath ghost over her ear and she shuddered.

"Ask for it." Hannibal commanded. Clarice stayed silent. "Ask for it, Clarice." She felt his fingers inch closer towards her wanting, drenched lips without touching them. "Tell me, my dear, what do you desire?"

"Touch me." It was barely audible.

"What?"

"Touch me," Clarice said with more force.

"Not like a girl. Ask like a woman would ask."

She growled as she felt the disapproval in his soft tone. His fingers were playing up the inside of her thighs. He was so tantalizingly close that she felt his fingers sliding in just a bit. He ran one finger lightly up the length of her cunt. That slow drag brought her wetness up and over her clit, where he applied some pressure. Clarice convulsed

As she whimpered, he pulled his finger away. "If you want that, Clarice, you'll need to ask like a woman. A confident, knowing woman. Tell me what you want. There is power in what you say."

Clarice caught her thoughts, which were like wisps of smoke-coming into existence, curling into strange shapes, disappearing within moments. She gave voice to the ones that made Hannibal's eyes darken with pure, carnal lust; the ones that made him surrender his control and grasp her hips, her shoulders, her throat, anything that was Clarice simply because he couldn't do otherwise. He thrust into her until she clawed at the sheets, bit the pillow, and still couldn't quite muffle her scream. He gasped her name with his own release.

There was nothing sentimental or overly sanguine about their coupling. It was stunning like a church collapse was stunning, and simple like the way a tangled knot was simple. Clarice had learned to live with their wonderful contradictions. Bad memories could not erase good ones; it was possible to understand and feel uncomprehending anger at the same time; and survival meant realizing that truths, like feelings, did not eclipse each other.

Clarice mused silently as she pressed into Hannibal's warm chest. He was stroking the knuckles of her right hand with his thumb, and murmuring lovely things in several languages. The sun was beautiful when it spilled into their room like this, she thought. Hannibal hummed, as if echoing her sentiment. He tilted her head up and asked:

"Are you excited for tomorrow?"

"Very much. I want to have a good time."

"That I promise you."


	29. Chapter 29

Buenos Aires, Argentina, was a city of wonders. It longed for the old world and the new, seducing both with its electrifying, irresistible sensations. The streets were decidedly European in their planning and execution; cobblestones and concrete, pastel coloured exteriors and dignified architecture. But the vivid smells and colours that seemed to become a permanent part of every identity were unique to the throbbing sensation of being alive, which only belonged to a place where passionate music played nonstop and the tango pulsed with an all-consuming fever.

The city buzzed with a contagious, creative energy and a brash self-confidence. At its heart was the Plaza de Mayo, and it also boasted the Palacio Barnolo, a towering edifice inspired by Dante's Inferno. Gargoyles adorned its walls and they solemnly observed life hurtle by. Many districts, from shopping to art, offered opulence and quaintness in equal measure. They were all connected by roaring concrete thoroughfares that smashed routes wherever routes were needed. Buenos Aires straddled the lascivious and the well-mannered without prejudice and with generous charm.

Near the magnificent Teatro Colòn was a long, quiet street filled with colonial houses and old trees. It might have been unremarkable to everyone else, but it had the distinct unacknowledged privilege of being the address of Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling. They owned the mansion nestled comfortably midway down the street. It was not a mansion in the sprawling American sense. It had two stories. The façade was white, with two golden numbers. The property was shy of boasting, but it was enough for a well-tended garden in the front and a swimming pool in the back.

Inside it was always bright thanks to the large windows that eagerly welcomed light. The furniture was sparse. All who were invited to the couple's dinner parties noted their impeccable taste. In literature, in culture, in paintings, in company, in well, everything. What was perplexing and terrifying and misunderstood by most was the fact that there was a tremendous honest energy in this mansion. An openness and vulnerability that rooted Hannibal and Clarice. Their love kept them sane. Decadence ruled only three places: the kitchen, the music room, and the bedroom.

In the middle of the afternoon, a strong, alluring scent wafted from the bedroom. The servants had been sent home in high spirits. Morale was always high among them, although they adhered to iron discipline; they were forbidden to enter the top floor of the mansion before noon. Or after service of the first course at dinner. They were respected, not worthy.

The worthiest place for worship was the bedroom. It was drenched in the smell of violet and iris which gave a powdery nuance, and created a harmony with the woodsy notes of cedar and sandal, while sensual amber added the final potent accord to the composition. The bedroom was big enough for two armoires, two bedside tables, and two windows. Art adorned the walls. A mirror was unnecessary. The four poster bed dominated the room.

Clarice was flat on her stomach, her arms and legs tied to the four edges of the bed. She was fully exposed and unable to move. The scent was coming from the warm oil Hannibal was using to get her comfortable. She felt his powerful hands travel up her ankles, calf, and the back of her thighs. Clarice sighed in appreciation of the careful and slow attention he paid to every inch of her graceful legs. As his hands moved back down, Hannibal lovingly held her feet, massaging oil deep into the bottom of her heels. Clarice moaned slightly as her body started to relax under his touch.

He must have sensed her becoming suppler for he tightened the ropes. Clarice knew Hannibal wanted her to feel tension. She'd come to crave the sensation of a little strain, a light pain. His hands moved up to her hips and thighs. Now he was over her. She could feel the weight and heat of his body. She felt its raw strength as he firmly massaged her hips, lower back, and her ass.

"Enjoy this, Clarice." Hannibal whispered.

While his hands caressed, he occasionally slid his finger knowingly between her legs. Clarice smirked. She knew he adored the look of her well oiled body under his control. The creamy soft coral skin of her back glistened. Sunlight danced and flickered as Hannibal's hands released tension in her shoulders, arms, and neck. He dragged his fingers along her sides and took particular care to brush her breasts. Her nipples hardened. Clarice needed him to see her arousal, to feel it.

She had so thoroughly offered her mind that it was in perfect harmony with her body: the soft afternoon light, the heady scent of oil and desire, the inconsequential nature of time-everything was attuned to wants and needs. And right now, she wanted to taste Hannibal in her mouth.

He was so close, but she needed him closer. Even as she delighted in being restrained, she wish ardently to reach out. But her only option was to look up, wide eyed, and grin wickedly before parting her glistening lips by licking them. Hannibal grasped his cock and stroked himself once, languidly, then stepped closer. Clarice was shivering from how reverently he'd attended to her, how his hands felt, so as her lips wrapped around his cock she let out a low moan.

Hannibal tilted his hips forward. She took more of him in, sheathed her teeth, and sucked. Her tongue swirled against the head. Panting, she pressed and dragged her mouth along his cock. It was slick and warm, so hard yet soft, and she gloried in his sharp intakes of breath. She quickly checked his expression for approval. A small smile played on his lips, and his fingers briefly stroked her hair. Then Clarice took him deeper in her mouth, steadily moving up and down his length, over and over.

Suddenly, Hannibal stepped away and moved out of sight. All was still. There was silence. Clarice felt another rush of desire. It came 'round the back of her mind, building and building, like fire that crawled across the surface of her brain, sizzling synapses and blurring her vision. The muddled sounds of the street could not distract her from the agonizing ache humming through her body; her entire being was focused on the point that could deliver waves and waves of pleasure. She cried out to be touched. Now.

She begged to be taken. She flowed onto the plush and warm sheets. The contrast of rough ropes around her arms and legs and the softness of the sheets held her at the edge of pleasure. Her stomach twitched. Her thighs tightened, her hips and ass squeezed with longing for some sensation. But Hannibal denied her any sensation. He held her in blistering uncertainty until she strained against the ropes, moaning and crying with desire.

He bent down. His nose touching her nose, his mouth close enough to kiss. Clarice strained even harder now. She needed to feel his approving lips, signalling to her that she was at home here. She was safe here. She was valued here. Hannibal moved in close, narrowly avoiding her lips; instead, she felt his breath travel against her cheek, over her ear and down her neck. He stopped at her shoulder to breathe in her scent. Hannibal could smell her heat, her sweat, her fear, and her anticipation. He chuckled and lightly kissed her throat. Clarice rubbed against him.

"In due time, my dear."

The feeling of soft silk grazed her forehead. Her breath hitched when It fell over her eyes. Darkness welcomed her, heightening all her other senses. Hannibal's fingers running slowly up her back made her nipples tighten. Her stomach clinched underneath his smooth touch. As he reached the small of her back, she lifted her hips. She wanted him to feel her dripping wetness. She needed him to know how much his attentions pleased her.

But Hannibal teased Clarice instead. His fingers ran over her round and tight ass cheeks. He gave them a firm smack. Dipping between them and brushing her inner thigh, he let his hand rest between her legs, enjoying the heat. She felt faint, flushed with an appetite so ravenous, if it wasn't satisfied soon, it would surely collapse and devour itself. She pressed wet against his hand. It floated there. Mocking. Clarice felt his breath ghost over her ear and she shuddered.

"Ask for it." Hannibal commanded. Clarice stayed silent. "Ask for it, Clarice." She felt his fingers inch closer towards her wanting, drenched lips without touching them. "Tell me, my dear, what do you desire?"

"Touch me." It was barely audible.

"What?"

"Touch me," Clarice said with more force.

"Not like a girl. Ask like a woman would ask."

She growled as she felt the disapproval in his soft tone. His fingers were playing up the inside of her thighs. He was so tantalizingly close that she felt his fingers sliding in just a bit. He ran one finger lightly up the length of her cunt. That slow drag brought her wetness up and over her clit, where he applied some pressure. Clarice convulsed

As she whimpered, he pulled his finger away. "If you want that, Clarice, you'll need to ask like a woman. A confident, knowing woman. Tell me what you want. There is power in what you say."

Clarice caught her thoughts, which were like wisps of smoke-coming into existence, curling into strange shapes, disappearing within moments. She gave voice to the ones that made Hannibal's eyes darken with pure, carnal lust; the ones that made him surrender his control and grasp her hips, her shoulders, her throat, anything that was Clarice simply because he couldn't do otherwise. He thrust into her until she clawed at the sheets, bit the pillow, and still couldn't quite muffle her scream. He gasped her name with his own release.

There was nothing sentimental or overly sanguine about their coupling. It was stunning like a church collapse was stunning, and simple like the way a tangled knot was simple. Clarice had learned to live with their wonderful contradictions. Bad memories could not erase good ones; it was possible to understand and feel uncomprehending anger at the same time; and survival meant realizing that truths, like feelings, did not eclipse each other.

Clarice mused silently as she pressed into Hannibal's warm chest. He was stroking the knuckles of her right hand with his thumb, and murmuring lovely things in several languages. The sun was beautiful when it spilled into their room like this, she thought. Hannibal hummed, as if echoing her sentiment. He tilted her head up and asked:

"Are you excited for tomorrow?"

"Very much. I want to have a good time."

"That I promise you."


	30. Chapter 30

**Note:**

 **"My god taught me hunger**  
 **is a gift, it sweetens**  
 **the meal. All day, I have gone without**  
 **because I know at the end I will**  
 **eat and be satisfied. In this way,**  
 **my desire is bearable."**

 **'Fasting in Tunis' from _Hometown Nocturn and Other Poems_ by Leila Chatti**

 **It's hard to walk in the dark and emerge unscathed. I'm grateful I don't have to walk alone.**

 **Writers are only as good as their wonderful readers. This was quite a journey and I couldn't have done it without all of you. I'm very grateful for your interest, support, and feedback. Hannibal and Clarice are a timeless couple, and this is just one version of events. I hope you enjoyed reading!**

 **Lots of love to filthybonnet aka the Clannibal Queen, who gave me the permission I needed to be weird and who was kind enough to help keep me on track when my own lambs were screaming; Hannah from the Loving Lecter Archive who answered my questions patiently and cared; and Jon, who helped hone my writing by being tremendously compassionate, attentive, and secure at a time in my life when I needed a guide. He gave me an insatiable hunger and taught me to covet words.**

 **After all, words can cause the strongest reactions, and can connect our mind to someone else's heart. I covet words. Quite simply, I'd be honoured to cause a reaction with this fic. I firmly believe that if we look deep enough inside ourselves, we can find anyone, somewhere between iron and silver.**

 **(for the folks on here, if you enjoyed this story, it's also available to download on my AO3; the link is in my profile!)**

* * *

The Día de la Independencia always attracted throngs of people to the Obelisco, the brilliant white needle monument which soared skyward in memory of Argentina's Independence from Spain. Massed together, the crowd was a fusion of bright clothing, bursts of excitement, snippets of conversation, drifters spilling from sidewalk cafes to find relief in the shadow of crumbling old buildings. Guitars and trumpets blared. Cars honked. Streamers flew against the cloudless blue sky. Such a concentration of energy demanded a break in habitual patterns of behaviour, a liberation from the mundane.

The noise made Clarice feel more alert, more fully human. She'd perfected a reckless indifferent smile and kept flashing it as she moved. She passed a bejeweled lady draped in a fur coat, then a group of children rummaging through the overflowing garbage can for scraps. The raucous swelled. Clarice picked her way beyond the Obelisco and onto the main thoroughfare, joining the stream of people. She waded through in a striped chiffon blouse and linen pants, with a leather satchel slung over her shoulder.

She brushed her hair aside to adjust the earpiece which was hooked up to the device concealed inside the satchel. It allowed her to communicate with Hannibal across the distance they shared. His voice came quick and hot in her ear.

"I tire of waiting for our prey."

"Try waiting around in a cage."

"Thank you for the offer, Clarice, but I must refuse."

"Yeah well, if we don't pull this off right-"

"We will. We prepared. You know the route. And I am here. Waiting."

Clarice scanned the crowd and sighed. "I know. Doesn't anything surprise you, though?"

"Oh, things surprise me. But I try to leave nothing to chance."

That was reasonable, Clarice thought. She was approaching a street lined with trees and parked cars. Blue and yellow bicycles were tethered to poles and signs and tree trunks. The houses stood close here, charming and undecided on any single architectural style. Clarice tailed a man that had just left his house; he was wearing a kitschy Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. His face was partially obscured by tinted aviators, but Clarice knew it was Frederick Chilton. He was sojourning in Buenos Aires to promote his new book, which claimed to provide substantial psychological insight into the minds of psychopaths.

Clarice also knew he was walking in the direction of a vibrant bistro that served octopus, molleja, cannelloni, and pork bondiola, because that was what he always did at this time of day, national celebrations or not. The thing about creatures of habit was that they had trouble breaking their habits-even the most lethal ones.

"I've got him."

"Goodie goodie."

"Let's just be quick about it, okay?"

"As you wish, Clarice. You haven't become too civilized, I hope."

"Never."

A van idled in the bistro's smoky and grimy back alley. The opinionated and fiery kitchen staff stubbed out the last of their cigarettes and headed back inside. With the exception of Hannibal, who was enjoying his cigar down to the last bit of ash. He'd borrowed plain white chef's attire. Clarice spotted him from a mile away. Her pulse quickened. She felt a tug in her gut, the low gathering sense of possibility that crackled to life when she reached into her satchel and took out the Harpy. She approached Chilton swiftly and pressed the blade against his back at the same time as she embraced him. To the people rushing by, the gesture appeared to be affectionate.

Chilton blanched. He spluttered. He seemed to shrink beneath Clarice's feral gaze. She steered him into the alley, and when he saw Hannibal, Chilton began to sob. Clarice shoved him forward roughly. The pull, the craving she felt when she met Hannibal's venereal gaze took her breath away. She was aware of how warm her skin was, how hard her heart pounded; how much Chilton was sweating, how he'd pissed himself; she could hear Hannibal's blood sing and it felt like a choir. Keeping Chilton between them, reduced to a consequence of the hunt, they moved in for the kill. Clarice shanked and Hannibal tore his throat. Blood spilled onto white clothes, onto the pavement, glistened on steel and teeth. Blood gave life, and it took life away.

Preparing and eating Chilton was a task that required all the time in the day. Hannibal and Clarice debated the merits of each part of his body, compared recipes, and enjoyed tender portions over the hours in many tasteful ways. The table changed clothes and silverware, and bottles of dark red wine. The sun surrendered to the moon as the last course was served.

"It's good to have an old friend for dinner."

"Indeed."

After dinner, Hannibal and Clarice went out to the balcony. The city lights glowed at their feet. People went about their business, oblivious and important, innocent and deceptive, lost and found. Hannibal Lecter watched it all happen from far away, content to be in his rightful place. He discovered that the constellations had finally revealed themselves in a way that made sense, one star at a time. But he didn't want to gaze above. Clarice Starling held his hand and felt like herself. She was the conspiring whisper in the back of the classroom, the melancholy of wilted flowers; the sensation of drifting out to sea, and the compass needle that was always true.


End file.
